


International Relations

by dustofwarfare, ohmyfae



Series: Imperative [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Collars, F/F, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Kink, M/M, Polyamory, Sex but also Feelings, Sub!Dimitri, dom!claude, dom!hilda, sub!felix, sub!marianne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: “Good to know Almyra’s treating you well, anyways,” Claude says, and when he reaches up to brush back Dimitri’s hair, Dimitri leans into it, bending down so Claude can easily scratch the back of his neck. He’s a whole new man like this, without having to worry who may know his secret or not, without the stress of having to hide who he is. It’s almost possible to forget that this is the same man who tore through the empire’s forces alone, one by one, foryears. Almost.“It’s beautiful,” Dimitri says, looking at Claude.“For the surface of the sun,” Felix says.———A sequel to Trade Agreement, from the Imperative series:King Dimitri Blaiddyd and his consort Duke Felix Fraldarius arrive in Almyra for peace talks, and manage to upend Claude’s carefully-arranged life in the best way possible.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Series: Imperative [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654516
Comments: 105
Kudos: 232





	1. reunions

**Author's Note:**

> A note regarding this AU: This fic and others in this 'verse are predicated on the idea there's a biological imperative to fulfill dominance/submission urges (including some sadism/masochism) and might trip some sensitivities because of it. It's not intended to be either dub-con or non-con, so it's not tagged that way, but if you're sensitive to the whole "biological need to submit/dominate" thing, keep this in mind.
> 
> This fic is set after the events of the Azure Moon route, and is a collaboration between the delightful dustofwarfare and ohmyfae!

The royal palace of Almyra, Felix learns, as he sweats through his undershirt on the way up a narrow, winding stair, is much like its king; It is grand, vibrant, showy in a way you don’t notice until you look down and see that yes, there _are_ golden reliefs of sea goddesses gleaming on the steps. It’s meant to be _admired._ Walkways wind throughout the outer walls, framed by high arches that reveal dizzying drops to the gardens below. Most of the arches are covered in thin curtains now—ostensibly to ward off the sun—but even indoors, where the halls are shaped like wind tunnels and young servants run by with ice blocks for the common rooms, Felix may well just die of heat exhaustion within the hour. If the palace is a peacock, with its stained glass windows and magnificent frescoes unfolding with every other step, Felix is a sweating, irate sparrow shoved up a chimney by comparison. He adjusts his heavy formal cloak—summer wear, by his standards—and glances at Dimitri.

King Dimitri Blaiddyd, who still looks fucking impeccable in his fur-lined royal coat and leather fucking armor, gives Felix a wry look.

“What,” Felix says. Ahead of them, King Khalid’s steward, an older woman with too much bounce in her step and a foxlike smile that’s vaguely alarming, points out a conversation room. Dimitri nods sagely.

“You look familiar, that’s all,” Dimitri whispers. Felix narrows his eyes. “Do you remember when we were seven—Oh, yes, that sounds lovely, I’m sure,” he adds to the steward, “and Ingrid tried to teach us all meditation? And you were wearing a suit for a portrait, and you—“

“Shut _up_ ,” Felix whispers.

“And you ripped off your trousers because you’d been sitting on an anthill the whole time and didn’t want to tell anyone—“

“Dimitri.”

“And Sylvain dunked you in the koi pond?”

For a moment, Felix considers regicide. Then Dimitri smiles, that ridiculous, unguarded grin that always led to Felix stumbling after him to climb trees and steal apples and stand in abject shame as their misdeeds were read out to them by his father, who never could keep a straight face. Felix gives Dimitri a warning look, and Dimitri turns back to the steward.

“Now, these are the quarters his majesty reserved for you,” the steward says, breezily flapping her hand at a large wooden door with golden honeybees on the frame. “But he said you may _prefer_ the accommodations along the sunrise wall.”

Dimitri’s eyes barely widen, but Felix can hear the hitch in his breath, and he isn’t surprised when Dimitri takes a deliberate step past the door with the bees. Their correspondence with Claude—hidden as it was between sheafs of legal nonsense regarding the peace talks—involved the question of staying a little _closer_ to his majesty’s quarters than previously expected. They hadn’t been able to discuss it in person, since they had to do all the bowing and scraping and formal nonsense required in the throne room before Claude sent them off like students in a dorm at Garreg Mach, but Felix is fairly sure that the suite of rooms they’re approaching is connected, at least partly, to Claude’s. The suite meant for the Almyran king’s collared submissives. The official story is that they’re staying there for Felix’s benefit, but that’s barely the half of it.

Felix tugs at his shirt, brushing the fabric of the collar hidden there, and Dimitri slaps him on the back, sending him stumbling forward. “Oh. I do apologize, Felix.”

“Mind your paws, Boar,” Felix says. Dimitri smiles.

“Mind your feathers, goose,” he whispers back. 

Felix smothers a snarl in his throat, and Dimitri covers his mouth to hide a laugh. The hall they’ve turned down opens on one side to a sprawling view of the city, which ripples in a wave of heat beyond the curtains. The steward bows them towards another door, framed this time with carved wooden flowers Felix hasn’t seen before, and Dimitri gratefully takes her hand and thanks her for her service. Her face brightens a little, the way all the servants in Fhirdiad do when Dimitri turns on the charm offensive, and she squeezes his hands once before letting go.

“We don’t have enough horses to bring back everyone who wants to stow away with you,” Felix says, when the steward is out of earshot. “Tone it down or they’ll think we’re recruiting.”

“That’s alright,” Dimitri says, striding through the door. “You’ll scare them off for me.”

Felix mutters darkly to himself as he muscles in past Dimitri, who stands in the doorway with one hand on the clasp of his cloak. The suite is massive, but there aren’t any walls to separate the bed from the small sitting area or the raised, burbling bath in the far corner. There are partitions, of course, half walls made of glass or woven wood stretched with canvas, but anyone in the doorway can very clearly see the bath with its gentle waterfall sliding over a ledge of stones, or the shackles on the wall next to the bed. Or the hook in the ceiling. Or the shelf of phalluses that Dimitri is definitely looking a little more than intrigued about.

“Move,” Felix says. He pushes Dimitri with a shoulder. “It’s sweltering.”

“I think it’s actually… quite cool in here,” Dimitri says, which is _ridiculous_ , because Felix is _dying_. “Did you see he installed a Fodlan evergreen by the window? He must have seen it in our rooms.”

“Or he likes plants. _Fuck_.” Felix runs a hand through his damp hair. “I’m not made for this. How are you not melting? You’re wearing a fucking wolf on your back.”

“This isn’t wolf fur—“ Dimitri sighs. “Felix. Just… take off the cloak if it bothers you.” He removes his own, and starts seeing to the straps of his leather armor. “There’s a bath right there.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about me.”

“You are. Except Sylvain isn’t here to dunk you in the pond this time.” Dimitri sets his leathers on a rack by the door, and has the audacity to sigh in relief. He looks like a fucking statue or something, one of the ones they have in the gallery in the palace back home. Noble. Beautiful. Not drowning in a pool of his own sweat.

“Fine,” Felix says.

“What?” Dimitri closes the door and flicks back his hair, which isn’t even damp.

“Fine,” Felix says again. He starts fumbling with his shirt. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re the only person who is remotely perturbed by this,” Dimitri says. “No one is forcing you.”

“Fuck you,” Felix says. He rips off his gloves and starts stepping out of his pants. They stick to his thighs, trying to cling to him, and he has to stumble back on a raised bench. “I’ll just disrobe five minutes after meeting a king of a foreign country in a _diplomatic mission—_ “

“Felix.” Dimitri is about to laugh. He can tell. “You’ve already done that. At least once.”

Felix flips him a rude gesture and kicks off his trousers. He stands there for a minute, vaguely triumphant and not entirely sure why, his face sickly with heat.

“Well,” Dimitri says. “Do you feel better?”

_“No.”_

Dimitri shrugs and pushes back from the wall. “Alright. Well, just so Sylvain doesn’t lecture me later…”

“What? No.” Felix snarls as Dimitri grabs him round the waist and swings him into his arms. He holds Felix like a misshapen suitcase, ignoring his flailing legs and inventive curses, and Felix grabs him by the collar of his thin silk undershirt as he is dropped unceremoniously into the bath. Dimitri almost goes under with him, but he is a beast of a man, and all Felix manages to do is pull the stitching of his shirt loose.

“You look better already,” Dimitri says, and ducks out of the way as Felix sloshes water over the edge. The bath is admittedly cool, stirred by the curious mechanical waterfall above, but it’s the principle of the thing that matters, really. Felix sinks down to his shoulders, and Dimitri grins.

“You look like one of those kelpies your mother went on about when we kept swimming in the river,” Dimitri says, and honestly, he has no right to look at Felix like this when he just _dropped_ him in a _pool_. “Ready to lure a man to his death.”

“Funny you’d say that,” Felix says. Dimitri gives him a soft, funny look, the one he reserves for days when the words get caught in Felix’s throat, and Felix sinks down another inch.

“I think he looks more like a drenched cat,” a voice says from behind Dimitri’s shoulder. “But that’s just me.”

Felix swims to the edge as Hilda Goneril, queen of Almyra and general menace, leans on a connecting door wedged between a statue of a woman with a pot and a pillar draped with ribbons. Her hair is down long enough to curl at her waist, and she’s smiling up at them with a look that reminds Felix disconcertingly of Claude. 

“Wondered what the commotion was about,” she says. “How are you liking the room, your majesty?”

Dimitri gathers himself enough to bow, even though he doesn’t have to. “Yes, it’s very nice. I appreciate the—“

“Great,” Hilda says. “So if you’re all, you know,” she gestures to Felix, “done. I need someone tall. Preferably yesterday.” She probably isn’t even trying to be too dominant, really—It’s just a part of her, too all-encompassing to ignore. Felix distinctly remembers choosing to avoid her in the training yards when she started looking for lackeys at the monastery, and makes a point not to catch her eye, but Dimitri straightens his shoulders.

“Of course,” he says. Felix groans and sinks under the water. “What do you need?”

***

Leave it to Claude, Hilda thinks, to end up with a visiting king and a duke in the room reserved for his _collared submissives_. Willingly! She’s never going to get over how his schemes are some weird mix of political scheming and, like, personal gratification. It’s _so_ attractive. 

“Just someone tall who can lift things,” Hilda says, vaguely, waving a hand. Despite Claude’s larger-than-life personality, he’s at least four inches shorter than Dimitri. And he’s also available and kind of Claude’s submissive, right? Which means she can borrow him. Right. 

From the bath, Felix is staring at Dimitri like he really wants to say something, but also like he’d rather die than get out of the bath or draw her attention, which is funny. She’s already told Claude she absolutely wants to watch him sweeten that particular bitter brew. If anyone could manage, it would be her charming, sneaky, gorgeous husband. 

“Your Majesty?” Dimitri asks, politely. 

Gracious, there’s just so _much_ of him, isn’t there? “Right, just come with me.” She turns on her heel and walks into her bedroom, putting a little swing into her hips even if she’s convinced that Dimitri only has eyes for his prickly consort and her husband. Still, he’s hot, and she’s going to enjoy watching him do stuff for her because honestly, who wouldn’t? 

The suite she shares with Claude is fashioned in the Almyran style, full of very specific Almyran symbolism; mythology, sky motifs and completely unsubtle military iconography tying it all together. The bed is large and low to the tiled ground, all silk sheets and pillows, draped in mosquito netting so the wide windows can be open for fresh air at night. There’s a small balcony attached to the royal suite that has mostly become Marianne’s, a place where she can sit at the small wrought-iron table and sip her tea, chattering at whatever little creature she’s charmed into joining her. 

There’s an attached bathing room that’s nearly the same size as the bedroom itself, a door that leads to Marianne’s private quarters and the one for the king’s submissives that is usually empty. And there’s a large closet, too, which is where Hilda is now leading the king of unified Fodlan to fetch some boxes of clothes she can’t quite reach. 

Sure, she could stand on a stool or something, but...why? Hilda was a queen. She’d put in her time of effort in the war, married the man she loved (thinking she was running away to live with _maybe_ a minor Almyran noble of mixed heritage, _not_ the crown _prince_ and future _king, Claude_ ) and brought her beloved, precious, sweetheart Mari with her. As far as she’s concerned, Hilda has done _more_ than enough to justify having someone else fetch her a box of summer accessories, another of sandals, and a few more of summer clothes for herself and Mari. 

Marianne is taller than her, and Hilda’s submissive, but what if her darling _fell?_ What if she was _hurt?_ No, it’s not happening. Hilda pauses and turns to Dimitri. “Mind getting those boxes down for me?” They both know the fact she made it a question with more than one possible answer is only because he’s technically a king. 

“I don’t mind. Which ones did you need?” 

Dimitri _looks_ like he should mind, even though he’s a little less fierce out of the bear-skin cape or whatever it’s made out of, and sans armor. He’s just a very tall -- _very_ tall -- broad-shouldered man with unkempt blond hair and an eyepatch, and she’s more than willing to play along with the sort of hilarious idea that he’s a dom during the peace talks because she knows how important it is to Claude. And Hilda would -- and _has_ \-- fought a fucking _war_ for Claude. 

But this isn’t the formal meeting room that’s been prepared for the talks, it’s her bedroom. Dimitri is, as wild as it sounds, her husband’s submissive. Just because he won’t live there doesn’t make it any less true, does it? She points at the boxes again. “All of them.” 

Dimitri just reaches up and starts taking the first box down, so Hilda ducks around his impossibly large frame and back out into her bedroom. Then she gets to bossily direct him where to put everything, which is very satisfying. Claude would have gotten them down for her, she knows, but she would have had to _thank_ him for it. And honestly, he had enough going on. She wasn’t a _monster._

Dimitri has no apparent problem with carrying every single box from the closet back into the bedroom. He doesn’t even look sweaty, which she supposes he wouldn’t. All that Blaiddyd strength, or whatever. 

Man, just thinking about that story Claude told her about how he’d fucked Dimitri makes her feel a little hot and bothered. She’d elected to stay under the furs and in front of the fire in Fhirdiad, but they’re in Almyra now, it’s warm, and she’s way more interested this time in participating -- even if it’s just as the audience. 

“Thanks, Dimitri,” Hilda says, sweetly, trying it out. She’ll use the proper address when she has to, but if they chose to stay in the rooms designated as the ones for Claude’s submissives, then… well, they shared, didn’t they? She and Claude? 

Dimitri beams at her, and the smile reminds her of the boy he was at the Academy, just briefly; they’d not known each other all that well, and while he’d been perfectly polite, he’d been mostly concerned with his own house. Hilda thought he was cute enough and while she’d had a few maybe _brief_ flirtations with the idea of being Queen of Faerghus, she’d never really pursued him beyond a few smiles or pointed comments. 

Which had all gone over his head, and of course, it made a lot more sense now. Not only was he not a dominant, but he was head-over-heels for the cranky future duke who eventually became his submissive. Claude was way more her type, anyway. 

But it sure is nice that he fetched all that stuff for her, and seemed happy about it! She wonders if there’s more stuff she can have him do. She has a feeling he’s into it, but also, it might upset Marianne if she let another submissive serve her when she likes doing it so much. Hilda doesn’t bother hiding her smirk. Her life is so hard, sometimes. 

“Is there anything else?” he asks, and if it’s a little hopeful...aww. What a sweetheart, really. Except she also saw him on the battlefield, and wow, it’s sort of hard to reconcile the man she saw spattered in blood with this handsome, young king with his deep voice and kind smile. She wonders what happened to all his violence, all the bloodlust. He’d nearly killed Claude -- _her_ Claude -- at Gronder, in his mindless search for vengeance. It had consumed him, his desire for Edelgard’s head the only service to which his nature wanted to bend. 

She’d killed people, too. So had Claude -- for all his charm and easy smiles, he’d been as cold-blooded a killer as the rest of them when he’d had to. That’s what war did to people. Even _Marianne_ , sweet darling Mari, had killed on the field of battle. They could tell themselves it was for a new world or to protect friends or even just survival, but it was still killing, wasn’t it? 

Hilda shakes off the melancholy and blames it on -- well, fucking Faerghus, that place was just _depressing_. Not nearly enough sunshine or something. She gives Dimitri a smile. “No, thanks. Better go see to your consort. Make sure he hasn’t drowned out of spite.” 

Dimitri snorts, then gives her another bow like he can’t help himself. He turns and heads off, and Hilda admires how he stalks like a lion before she goes to find Claude. 

He’s just coming back from the stables, likely making sure the horses don’t end up dead and the Faerghans -- Fodland...ers? -- don’t declare war over it or something. Claude’s in his formal attire and he looks so hot, all kingly and attractive with his dark hair pushed back off his face, the sharp line of his jaw outlined by his neatly trimmed beard. 

She’d trimmed it for him just this morning, shaved the rest of his face clean while straddling his lap with the straight razor, his face covered in shaving cream that ended up on her nose when she leaned in to kiss him. She’d teased him, and he’d been all wound up, in a mood because of the impending arrival of their _guests_ , and had fucked her there in the morning sunlight of the bathing room, fast and hard like she liked it, his fingers strong but gentle on her hips. 

“Hi,” he says, when he catches sight of her. “What’s up, my star, light in my sky, sun to my moon?” 

“Ugh,” she says, but she’s smiling. “You’re way too pleased with yourself. By the way, I made your sub get _all_ those boxes down for me! He’s so nice and tall.” 

Claude’s eyebrows go up. He has such pretty eyes. “You -- did. Of course you did.” He starts laughing. “They decided to stay in the suite, then?” 

“Of course,” Hilda says, linking her arm in his. “Anyone who would turn _that_ down doesn’t deserve to be yours.” She leans up and kisses him on the cheek. “Felix is in the bath already. He looked cranky, but I bet you’re not surprised to hear that.” 

“Nope.” He pats her hand, and they stroll toward the royal suite at an even pace, Claude giving a smile or wave to the servants they pass, using their names and speaking in Almyran. Hilda tries, but she’s not quite as good with the language -- though she _is_ getting better. 

“So, should Mari and I plan on occupying ourselves for a while?” Hilda teases, tossing her hair. Marianne, who is probably out in the gardens, humming and having cute little conversations with the birds. 

“Mmm, probably for the best. I have a feeling they’re pretty wound up.” 

“ _They_ are, huh,” Hilda says, dryly. She pats him on the shoulder as they reach the royal suite. “Go play with your toys, King Khalid. I’m gonna find Marianne.” 

He pulls her close and kisses her. “You know you’re the best, right?” 

Hilda tosses her hair. Of course she does. Who does he think he’s talking to?

***

“Stop touching that.”

Claude opens the door to his suite—which has been slightly rearranged, thanks to Hilda conscripting the king of Fodlan into taking down what looks like _all_ of her and Marianne’s summer clothes—and finds the connecting door to Felix and Dimitri’s new chambers wide open. It’s stayed largely ignored for most of Claude’s reign, since most of the submissives he’s taken over the past few years have left before sunrise, and it’s odd to have it just hanging there so casually, with voices drifting in from the other side. 

“I’m not touching it, Felix, I’m admiring it.” Dimitri sounds almost giddy with excitement, which is… also odd. “That’s a genuine Fenton rapier—look at the tempering on the steel, how it’s in a wave pattern?”

“Yes, because my father _had_ a Fenton, you dolt.” Claude drops his cloak on the clothespress. Oh, yes, Felix _is_ in a mood. “Just. Fucking. No, don’t, you’ll bash it into something.”

Claude takes that as his cue to intervene. He steps into the room, which already shows signs of use, from spots on the tiles by the bath to clothes laid out on the bed, and props his hands on his hips. Felix is naked, a towel around his neck and a hand on Dimitri’s chest, and Dimitri almost looks like a kicked puppy, all earnest intent and a wavering smile. They’re standing in front of a display of some trophy one of Claude’s great-great-great grandfather’s submissives took from an Alliance soldier back in the day, and they don’t even notice Claude until he clears his throat.

“Hey, nerds,” he says.

“You’re a _king_ ,” Felix says, but Dimitri just throws back his head and laughs. A real laugh, the kind Claude overheard back in Faerghus, too true to be dignified. Claude crosses the room, but Dimitri meets him halfway, and Claude grunts as Dimitri pulls him into the kind of back-clapping, bone-crushing embrace _Nader_ tends to give before he remembers himself, steps back, and tries to smooth out his smile with his hand.

“Your majesty,” Dimitri says. His eye is a bright, brilliant blue. “Did you know that’s a genuine Fenton on your wall?”

“Goddess preserve us,” Felix groans.

“Wait until I show you what else we have lying around,” Claude says, and Dimitri does look younger like this, even with his hands inching behind his back and his hair disheveled over his eye. Claude’s going to find him something fantastic before he leaves. One of the old kingdom swords, maybe, from back when the city was just another nation-state, or the blue steel from the Seaforge Armory.

“Good to know Almyra’s treating you well, anyways,” Claude says, and when he reaches up to brush back Dimitri’s hair, Dimitri leans into it, bending down so Claude can easily scratch the back of his neck. He’s a whole new man like this, without having to worry who may know his secret or not, without the stress of having to hide who he is. It’s almost possible to forget that this is the same man who tore through the empire’s forces alone, one by one, for _years_. Almost.

“It’s beautiful,” Dimitri says, looking at Claude.

“For the surface of the sun,” Felix says. “Also. Claude. None of my clothes are here.”

“They’re in your official rooms,” Claude says. He lets his hand drop, sliding down Dimitri’s chest, and pauses to admire Felix standing before him, gloriously naked and wound tight as a spring. “Sweating, probably. I know you’ll want to wear your official knitted sweaters to the talks, but trust me, you’ll like what I’ve picked out for you.”

“I checked,” Felix says, glancing at the chest at the foot of the bed. His cheeks flush a pleasant shade of pink. 

“You’ll change your tune when you’re dying of heatstroke later,” Claude says. He walks up to Felix and pulls the towel off his shoulders. It drops to the floor at their feet, and Claude twists a lock of Felix’s hair in his fingers. “But you know, I gotta say I like you better like this. Maybe I should keep you this way when the talks are over. Walk you around in nothing but that collar, show you off a little.”

He’s forgotten _exactly_ how hot it is to watch Felix fight himself. Felix can’t hide the way his cock twitches, or the blush rising in patches up his chest, but he still lets out something of a growl and tilts his head back, exposing his neck.

“You can fucking try,” Felix says. Dimitri clicks his teeth behind Claude’s back, and Claude grins. He grips Felix’s chin with one hand, examining him, watching Felix brace for the slap he wants, the buzz of pain to drive him under.

Claude pats his cheek, and Felix’s lips part, just slightly. _Then_ Claude slaps him, more loud than hard, leaving Felix blinking and open-mouthed.

“That’s because I missed you,” Claude says. “Don’t let that go to your head. On your knees.” He snaps his fingers and points to the ground. “You won’t get more if you don’t behave. Otherwise I’ll tie you to the wall and let you watch me ride Dimitri—But I might do that anyways,” he adds, casting a smile over his shoulder. Dimitri, who looks like he half wants to get on his knees in Felix’s stead, smiles back.

Felix grits his teeth, chin raised, chest heaving slightly.

“Alright, Dimitri,” Claude says. “There’s rope in the drawer by the bed. Fetch it for me.”

Felix’s gaze darts to Dimitri as he crosses the room, and Claude is pleased to see a note of apprehension there. He waits another second before Felix drops to his knees, a little rushed and inelegant but no less earnest, and yanks his head back by the hair so he can meet his eyes.

“Better,” he says. “But I think you can work a little harder for me, don’t you agree? Dimitri, forget the rope. Get the flogger on the wall. The… second one. Bring it back in your teeth,” he adds, and bless him, Dimitri doesn’t even need the order to kneel when he lifts the handle of the flogger to his mouth. Hilda must have done a number on him, really. Claude will have to remember to get her something nice later.

Maybe Felix.

Claude keeps a tight grip on Felix’s hair as Dimitri shuffles over, and he only lets go to take the flogger and kiss Dimitri indulgently. He takes his time with it—He does like kissing Dimitri, sending coded letters full of absolute pornographic filth across an entire country just isn’t the same—and regards Felix. There are so many ways he could do this. So many plans Claude has made, these past weeks, letting his mind drift in the quiet hours. 

“Felix. Get on your hands and knees. Dimitri, sit in front of him and hold his wrists up for me. Make sure he doesn’t move. You can lean on him,” he says to Felix, when Dimitri dutifully moves into position. “And you can kiss each other, if you can manage that. You’re good?”

“Debatable,” Felix says, which is almost a _joke_ , except Claude really does need to hear this. He taps Felix’s mouth lightly with the handle of the flogger. “Yes.”

“You know what to say if you need to tap out,” Claude says. Which Felix won’t, probably, not with the way he’s eyeing the flogger, which means Claude’s probably going to have to be careful. He paces around Felix, stopping to move him into a better position, trailing the straps of the flogger along his back and over the curve of his ass.

Claude gives the flogger a few experimental swings, not quite connecting, but the sound is enough for Felix’s thighs to clench and his fingers to curl where Dimitri is holding him. He probably could have gone for the suede, warm Felix up a little longer, but he’s probably as eager for it as Felix is. Still, when it first connects, too soft to give Felix the burn he needs yet, Felix huffs slightly and arches his back.

“Sweet thing,” Claude says, which of course makes Felix glower, contrary as he is, and doesn’t prepare him for the impact of the flogger. He almost makes a sound this time. “You are, though. Look how good you’re being for me, for Dimitri. I’m going to mark you up so nice, Felix, you’ll feel it all through dinner and you’ll thank me for it. Maybe I’ll cane you. Let you remember this every time you move in your seat tomorrow.”

Claude swings sharply, and is rewarded by a low, wrenching moan. “Dimitri. Let him know how good he is.”

Dimitri hauls Felix up a little higher—He’s starting to lean his weight on Dimitri’s shoulder, now, and kisses him hungrily. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, and Felix’s mouth bumps into his jaw as his heated skin makes the lashes sting sharper still. “Holding on so well.”

Felix is starting to let out soft, short sounds through his teeth, and Claude thanks whoever’s around to listen that he’s been training with a bow his whole life, because his arm is starting to burn and he could honestly go on forever like this if he could, wringing out cries until Felix is sobbing in Dimitri’s lap. Dimitri is whispering in Felix’s ear, holding him up entirely now, and Felix moans and twitches and shudders until Claude has to stop, has to push his thighs apart to see how hard he is, throbbing and desperate.

Felix growls in frustration, pushing back on his knees, and Claude strokes the length of his cock feather-light, teasing at the tip. “Use your words, Felix. If you want more, ask nicely.”

“Fuck you,” Felix says, and Claude can feel his cock twitch in his hands. 

“Alright. We’ll get the rope, and Dimitri can—“

“Please.” Felix’s voice is ragged, almost truly pleading. “Please, damn you, I’m so, I just need.”

“Felix,” Dimitri breathes, into his hair.

Claude draws his hand back, and Felix almost does sob. It’s _magnificent_. “Please, give me more.”

What can Claude say to that? He flogs Felix until his arm protests, until Felix is on the verge, rocking forward onto Dimitri with every gasping breath, until the pain reaches its zenith and his breathing goes shallow and he’s limp in Dimitri’s hold, his cock all but forgotten. Claude sets the flogger down and trails his fingers down Felix’s cheeks, feels the damp of tears there, hooks a finger into his mouth. Felix just takes it, utterly spent and gasping, and Claude parts his thighs a second time and brings him off in seconds, barely even pulling a cry from Felix’s worn-out body. 

Dimitri helps hold Felix up while Claude wipes him down, telling him how good he is, how well he took it, how good it will feel when Claude fucks him, later. Felix mumbles something in response but doesn’t protest when Dimitri helps lay him out on the bed, and closes his eyes when Claude lays a hand in his hair. Claude keeps petting him, and kisses Dimitri, lying back with Dimitri half over him. Felix radiates heat like the embers of a fire, but Claude lets himself enjoy this moment, utterly content.

Dimitri breaks the kiss and looks down at Claude, eyes dark, and flicks his gaze between their bodies. “May I?” he asks.

“May I what?” Claude asks.

“May I, your majesty,” Dimitri says, which isn’t what Claude meant, but fuck, he’s feeling generous today, and he nods. Dimitri sinks down the bed, and when his lips close around Claude’s cock, Claude can feel the rumble of a pleased hum in Dimitri’s throat.

“Good boy,” Claude says, and he isn’t sure, exactly, if he means Felix, drifting at his side, or Dimitri, looking up at him from under his disheveled bangs. And it doesn’t really matter, anyways. Not now. They all know it’s true.

***

Dimitri _loves_ sucking cock. 

It isn’t just because it satisfies and thrills that part of him that craves service, though of course that’s part of it. He just likes the way it feels, the stretch in his jaw, the way it makes Felix shudder and gasp and fight the pleasure and eventually give in. It’s visceral and it feels _so good_ , the weight of Felix’s cock on his tongue, the musky taste, the tremble in Felix’s thighs. 

Felix...to say he _allows_ it is a bit of a misnomer. He likes it, but he would, Dimitri knows, prefer to fight, to be taken apart and made to beg for it, to thrash and pant and moan, to cry from sheer frustration before he _ever_ let himself sink into the sheer pleasure of being inside Dimitri’s warm mouth. 

Or he’d rather be the one on his knees, letting himself be used, choking and gagging and forced into _giving_ pleasure as much as receiving it. After Claude’s visit, Dimitri could get Felix worked up enough simply by telling him how it had felt to let Claude choke him with his cock, the way it had felt to give it up so much that he cried for him. How he’d loved when he’d taken his own pleasure in Felix’s mouth, Claude’s hand in Felix’s hair, pulling him forward on Dimitri’s cock. Controlling them both. 

Doing this for Claude, though, is all about doing it to give pleasure. It makes Dimitri’s own cock throb, ache as he takes Claude deep and sucks him hard. Claude’s still sort of dressed, having only taken off his formal robes and lying back on the bed in his trousers, boots and his sleeveless undershirt. He looks gorgeous as he gasps and writhes under Dimitri’s eager mouth, the long muscles of his wyvern rider’s thighs tensing beneath Dimitri’s palms as he pushes himself deeper. 

“You’re so good at this,” Claude praises him, a hitch in his voice. It makes Dimitri grind his cock on the bed, though he’s only partly aware of it; most of his attention is on Claude, the sounds he’s making, the way he moves under Dimitri’s hands. Every now and then Dimitri glances up to see Felix, sprawled out and watching them from heavy-lidded eyes. He looks so beautiful, wrecked and under for Claude, all his tension unwound and his face still a little flushed.

Dimitri moans around Claude’s cock, thinking about how Felix looked being flogged, cheeks wet with tears, the sharp look in his cut-amber eyes softening into a blur like the sunset. Claude’s fingers tangle in Dimitri’s hair, and Dimitri feels the hesitant brush of fingers on his shoulders and realizes it’s Felix. Felix is touching him, Claude is moaning beneath him, and Dimitri is utterly and completely _content._

He sees Claude kissing Felix, feels Claude’s cock swell in his mouth, and Dimitri leans forward until he chokes and Claude comes down his throat. 

Claude grabs his hair and twists it when he does, body arching up like his favorite bow as he cries out his pleasure. 

“Mmm,” Claude says, smiling down at him, where Dimitri has his face pressed against Claude’s stomach. He laughs, a little husky, and puts his arms behind his head. “Don’t I feel like a king.” 

“Sure don’t act like one,” says Felix, next to him, but there’s that half-smile on his face that says he’s in as good a mood as he ever is. 

“Don’t I? You’ve been here less than a few hours and I’ve already gotten you naked and crying for me, and your king just sucked me off...Felix, I would have to say I’m sort of winning at kingship at the moment.” 

“Hmph,” Felix says, but there’s a rough sort of affection in it that Dimitri recognizes for what he is. 

Dimitri hides a smile in Claude’s undershirt; or tries, but Felix sees it anyway. “No one asked you, Boar,” he says, but ruins it with a yawn. 

“Speaking of Dimitri,” Claude says. “I think it’s your turn. Waiting so patiently to be attended to. Felix, why don’t you help him out?” 

“Why should I?” Felix asks, lounging like a contented cat. 

“There’s no need --” Dimitri starts, not wanting to disrupt Felix’s hard-earned and badly-needed relaxation. 

“Shh,” Claude says, pressing his fingers to Dimitr’s mouth. “There’s a need if I say there is. And I want to watch him ride you.” 

Claude’s effortless dominance does the trick, making Dimitri grind his hips against the mattress and press a heated kiss against Claude’s abs beneath the fabric of his undershirt, waiting to be directed. It only takes a few seconds before Claude pulls on his hair -- gently but firmly -- and says, “Up here, gorgeous.” 

Dimitri complies, sprawling on his back. Felix, languid as he is lying there all sated and naked, is on top of him in a second. He puts on an attitude but Dimitri knows he likes this, when he’s in the right mood; likes pulling Dimitri’s pants down enough to get his cock free, slicking him up with the oil Claude so helpfully provides, opening himself with his oiled fingers, all impatience as he tosses his hair back without even realizing how it looks, gasping as he fucks himself in a hurry. 

Claude lays next to them, watching with a smile. “I can’t believe you take the time to do that,” he says. 

“Dima’s -- fucking huge,” Felix huffs, like he doesn’t _love_ that, like it’s a problem. He straddles Dimitri’s lap and positions his cock where he needs it, and then -- he glances over at Claude, glaring because of course he does, and waits. 

Dimitri, panting hotly with his hands on Felix’s hips -- not pulling or guiding, just holding him -- almost laughs. Felix is waiting for permission. 

Claude knows it, too. His grin turns wicked. “I should make you beg. Both of you. Make Felix beg to take that gorgeous cock, make Dimitri beg to be inside you. Mmm. Maybe later. Go ahead, Felix. What a good boy you are, for asking.” 

Felix glares but he turns back to Dimitri, hair wild around his face, sinking down on Dimitri’s cock. They both groan; Felix goes too fast like he always does, and Dimitri worries it will hurt him like _he_ always does, but Felix feels so good, slick and hot around him, and Dimitri gasps in pleasure and Felix gives a shivery little moan as he seats himself and starts to move. The moan turns louder, and Dimitri blinks up at him, hearing his own breathing get rougher as Felix moves harder. 

“Hurts, from the flogger, doesn’t it,” says Claude. 

Oh. Dimitri has forgotten about that, but not Felix -- he arches and his head tips back, and he’s so beautiful that Dimitri’s fingers tighten on his hips, fights the urge to move and fuck up into him. He loves when Felix does this, takes his pleasure, _uses_ Dimitri’s cock. 

“Yeah,” Felix groans, his cock growing hard while he fucks himself on Dimitri. His hands settle on Dimitri’s chest, through his shirt soaked with sweat. 

Claude is watching them with unabashed enjoyment, propped up on his elbow. “Dimitri, look at you, letting him use your cock like that. I’ll have to take my own turn sometime.” 

Felix goes all tight around him and Dimitri moans, hips pushing up despite wanting to let Felix guide this, use him. The thought of doing this for Claude, too, though...it’s almost too much. 

“Make him fuck me harder,” Felix demands, all bossy and hot, practically bouncing on Dimitri’s cock.

Claude moves so he’s kneeling and grabs Felix’s hair, pulling sharp enough to get a sound out of Felix. “Ah-ah, Felix, this is for Dimitri right now, not you. And he wants you to use him, don’t you, Dimitri?” 

“Ah,” Dimitri manages, overwhelmed, face sweat-dampened and his hair hanging in his eye. “I -- yes, I do, want that, yes.” 

“I’m trying,” Felix bites out, fingers tight on Dimitri’s shoulders. “Well? Does it feel good?” 

Dimitri nods. “Of course -- Felix, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, and Felix scowls at him. 

“Put your fingers in his mouth, make him suck on them,” Claude commands, and Dimitri obeys immediately. Felix’s eyes flash, and Claude’s low chuckle is warm and as wicked as his smile. “That’s good, yeah, fuck his mouth like you’re fucking him, Dimitri, good _boy_.” 

Dimitri loves Felix, he loves the way Felix sucks on his fingers, he loves Felix riding him and he loves the praise Claude is giving him while Felix grinds down on his cock. “I’m -- close, I -- Claude, please, may I --” 

“Mm, I have thought about how hot you sound when you ask me to come,” Claude says, which is not permission and so Dimitri has to grit his teeth and close his eye to try and keep himself from disobeying. “Felix, do you want to make your king come for you? I know you must know exactly how to do it, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Felix says, shifting on top of him, muscles tightening around him and making Dimitri buck beneath him despite himself. “I know what he likes.” 

“Make him come, Felix.” Claude ducks in and kisses Dimitri. “That’s a yes, if you’re wondering. You may.” 

Felix grinds on him, staring at him and saying, “Come _on_ , Dima, do it,” clenching hard around Dimitri’s cock and using his strength and flexibility to his advantage as he moves on top of him. 

Dimitri grabs him and pulls him into a hot kiss, moaning his pleasure as he fucks up into him with sharp thrusts of his hips, making the bed shake as he finally comes. Felix kisses him back and half-falls on Dimitri’s chest as Dimitri finishes. 

When he blinks his eyes open, Felix is panting against his neck and Claude is rubbing a hand over Felix’s back. They’re both sweaty and in need of a bath, probably. Another one, for Felix. 

Speaking of another one for Felix -- 

“Shall I --” Dimitri starts, reaching between them, seeking Felix’s cock. 

“I think we’ll let him wait,” Claude says, voice tinged with just a touch of the kind of cruelty Felix likes so much. “Make sure he’s on his best behavior during dinner.” 

“You fucking wish,” Felix grumbles, loud enough for Claude to hear -- but his face is still pressed to Dimitri’s neck, and Dimitri can feel him smile, just a little, against his skin. 

Dimitri rubs a hand up and down Felix’s lean, muscular, sweat-damp back -- and Felix, sufficiently under enough, actually allows it. 

This visit is already getting off to quite a good start.


	2. challenges

Unlike Claude’s trip to Fhirdiad, the Almyrans will save their feast for the end of the visit -- when they know the visiting Faerghans can be trusted, when there’s something to celebrate. And it will be a very energetic and entertaining feast, with acrobats and silk-climbing aerialists and all sorts of things to show that Almyrans are both fearsome warriors _and_ know how to have a party. 

But for now, it’s intended to be a time of building bonds between the King of Fodlan and his consort and the ruling family of Almyra. Which, well, Claude would say he’s done a pretty good job of doing that already, given he’d put them both under in mere hours of their arrival. 

“Someone looks smug.” Hilda walks up and stands next to him, the wide sheer curtains fluttering in the breeze coming in from the windows. The dining room is one of the several private rooms in the palace reserved exclusively for the royal family, a comfortable space with a huge wall of windows that open to let in the cooler night breeze. It overlooks a courtyard with several fountains beneath, the gentle sound of water meant to convey the power of the Almyran monarch, to bring forth water in a desert. 

Or something like that, anyway. 

Claude looks over at Hilda and smiles. She’s in her favorite sort of ensemble for private dinners; a thin beaded silk top that covers her breasts and then dips down in an inverted triangle to fasten at a skirt worn low on her hips. The skirt is strips of beaded fabric and gauze held together by the belt, and she’s barefoot with an anklet that Claude gave her, one with little bells that makes it jingle softly when she walks. She has a light wrap that she could be wearing if she wanted -- it’s a revealing outfit, showing flashes of her bare legs when she walks and her entire back is on display, as well as the soft skin of her waist and quite a bit of her stomach. But she looks amazing, and the colors are all rose golds, pale coppers and white that highlight her fair skin and pink hair, worn in an elaborate twist of braids and woven with strands of glittering beads. 

Hilda made the accessories, but Marianne likely wove them in Hilda’s hair -- usually anything that’s more time-intensive than her customary double-pigtails is Marianne’s work. Patience is not Hilda’s best friend. 

“Gods, you are so gorgeous,” Claude murmurs, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Marianne, isn’t she beautiful?” 

Marianne is pouring them both a drink, some iced water with fruit and a touch of a local liquor, something spicy that cuts through the sweetness. She’s wearing an outfit Hilda put her in, similar in theory with the silk and gauze, though a bit more coverage given Marianne is slightly more modest. If they were there, just the three of them, she’d probably be in her collar and skimpy underthings and nothing else -- Hilda’s spent a long time making Marianne comfortable enough to wear these sorts of things. 

She has a jingling anklet, too. Claude gave it to her as a symbol that she had a home here, when she moved with Hilda after they were married. She smiles as she crosses the room and hands them each a cold silver cup of the iced drink. “Of course she is, your majesty.” 

“Aww. Sweet girl.” Hilda takes her drink and Marianne tucks herself in at Hilda’s side; the three of them stand there for a moment, looking out at the cool Almyran evening. They tend to eat late here, in the summer, so the worst of the day’s heat has passed. It’s probably not going to be enough for Felix, even wearing the outfit Claude picked out for him. “Claude, you’re doing the smug thing again.” 

“Can you blame me? My wife is gorgeous, her submissive is sweet and lovely --” 

“Oh,” Marianne murmurs, pressing her face into Hilda’s shoulder. 

“I have the King of Fodlan here to sign a peace treaty, he blew me and then I got to hit his hot submissive and watch them fuck. Literally don’t know a person alive who _wouldn’t_ be smug right now.” Claude smiles at his wife. “And I have a feeling you’re gonna like the thing I gave Felix to wear. Kinda looks like Marianne’s outfit, honestly.” 

Hilda grins up at him. “I’m surprised you gave him anything. Him _and_ Dimitri.” 

“Well. It’s only day one. I gotta, you know. Ease them into it.” He wiggles his eyebrows. 

Hilda laughs. “You’re a huge dork. Like, I know you’re hot and a king and all, but, seriously. Huge dork.” 

“Uh-oh. You know that’s a death sentence, insulting the king.” 

Hilda gives an inelegant snort and elbows him in the side. “I’d be dead like eight times over, if that were true.” 

“Just today, even,” Marianne adds, in her quiet voice. 

Claude throws his head back and laughs while Hilda sputters in mock outrage. “Better spank her for that, Hilda.” He’s seen Hilda spank Marianne. It’s hot as fuck but in no way constitues an actual punishment, that’s not their style. 

“Oh, Claude, you know I’m only teasing,” Hilda says, snuggling closer for a moment. 

“You’re not, but that’s okay.” He kisses her and then hears, from the hallway, a very familiar voice. 

“No. _No._ I’m not -- not going in there. Not dressed like this!” 

Ah. Their guests have arrived. 

“Felix, don’t be silly. Claude chose those clothes for you --” 

“These aren’t _clothes,_ Dimitri, they aren’t even _drapes_.” 

“You didn’t,” Hilda says, eyes wide. 

Claude winks at her, then turns to the door. “Felix! Dimitri. Please, come in. Felix, I promise, Hilda’s wearing almost the same thing.” 

“Claude,” Hilda giggles, taking Marianne’s hand. “You’re terrible, I love it.” 

Dimitri and Felix walk in the room - ostensibly Felix does, it’s Dimitri who comes in first. He’s in high-waisted pants and a billowy sort of shirt, open at the neck, simple boots and his still-damp hair tied haphazardly back in a ponytail that Claude doubts will last through dinner -- the way Dimitri tends to tug at his hair. 

“Hello,” he says, to Claude. “Ah. Your majesties.” He bows, submissive already, and he is such a _treat,_ isn’t he? His eyes light on Marianne. “Lady Marianne. It’s been some time.” 

Marianne isn’t nearly as shy around people as she used to be, but she’s blushing almost the second Dimitri turns that earnest gaze to her. “O-oh, h-hello Dimitri.” She seems to remember Dimitri is a king and adds hastily, “Your majesty.” Her hands are clasped in front of her and her head is bowed. 

“Oh-- no, please, Dimitri is fine,” Dimitri says, stepping forward, as if he intends to bow or take her hands and then clearly uncertain what to do as far as protocol. 

“This is kind of funny,” Hilda says, not bothering to lower her voice. “This is a private dinner, Dimitri. No need to be all formal.” 

“Then may I say, it’s quite nice to see you again,” Dimitri says with that smile of his, the one that is just so disarmingly attractive that Claude can’t quite look away. 

Hilda makes a strange little gasping sound next to him -- one he’s heard before, many many times, that usually involves him with his mouth between her legs or her riding his cock or something more pleasant than introductions. He blinks over at her, but she’s just staring at Marianne and Dimitri with a little grin on her face and he’ll have to ask her about that, later. 

First, though. 

“Felix, you’re not going to stand behind Dimitri all night, are you?” Claude asks, arms crossed. 

“Yes,” says Felix, from behind Dimitri’s bulk. “Yes, I am.” 

***

Felix is fairly sure that if he wants to, he could probably temper steel with the heat of his face alone.

The thing is, he can’t even blame this on Almyran tailoring. The outfit Claude left for him, finely pressed and tucked in with a sachet to give it a faint floral scent, is made in the Faerghus style. _Dancers_ wear clothes like this on festival days, when summer brings out the maypoles and people dress up in costumes of bark and evergreen and river mud, capering malevolently. But the dancers wear this—gauzy blue fabric that may as well be sheer, tied at the waist with a sash made heavy by rope tassels and silver bells. There’s usually an undergarment, too, something in white, but Claude has seemingly forgotten this, and now Felix is standing behind Dimitri with half his chest and most of his left leg displayed for the world to see. He’s wearing the arm bands, too, golden wyverns that curl around his wrist and end at his elbow, but only because Dimitri insisted.

Even if the weight of them, so close to the secure clasp of a shackle, is kind of nice.

Hilda skirts around Dimitri, which means Felix can either run for the door or hide around Dimitri’s other side, exposing himself to Claude. Literally. He tugs at the sash, but it doesn’t quite cover his ass completely, and his breath hitches as his fingers brush along the fading marks Claude made.

“Oh, _nice_ ,” Hilda says, and Dimitri, traitor that he is, steps aside. Felix tugs at the sash again, and his jaw clenches as Claude looks him over appreciatively.

“It was this or come naked,” Felix says, and Marianne, who can’t seem to look at him for long without smiling, places a hand over her mouth.

“Both satisfactory options, really,” Claude says. “Come here. Let me get a better look at you.”

They can all look at him just fine from where they are, but Dimitri has that look again, the pleading one, and Hilda’s already not so subtly angling to get a better look at his ass, so Felix takes a step forward.

He jingles.

When he stops short, Marianne pipes up. “It’s actually nice, once you get used to it.”

Which is just. Felix can’t just... This is _Marianne,_ the girl who kept to the shadows in a monastery full of them, who Felix would sometimes exchange silent glances with from across the courtyard, when he would stop to pet one of the cats that lounged in the grass. 

“You’re the best girl,” Hilda says, ignoring Felix completely to press Marianne to her chest. Marianne nearly giggles as Hilda strokes her hair, and Felix takes the next two jingling steps over to Claude.

“Well,” he says.

“ _Well,_ ” Claude says, with feeling. He whistles low, grabs Felix’s shoulders, and twists him around so sharply that Felix almost staggers. “Gods bless Faerghus, I suppose.”

“Fuck you,” Felix says, except it comes out wrong, strangled and hitching, because Claude chooses that moment to slap him hard on the ass. He closes his eyes tight, just for a second, and Claude leans in to kiss him right below the ear. 

“I’m going to have a whole closet of these made for you,” he whispers, and he digs his fingers in Felix’s skin. Felix’s cock swells—he can’t deny the fleeting image this brings, the thought of Claude ripping the cloth aside, taking him on the table where they’re meant to hold the peace talks, on the throne, here, in front of everyone—

“Get one in gold,” Hilda says, and Claude lays a hand on the back of Felix’s neck, steadying him. Dimitri’s watching them both with open hunger, eye bright. “With more bells, so we can always tell where he is. Like a cat.”

Felix narrows his eyes, and Hilda grins.

“Let’s take this to the table,” Claude says, though he may as well have said, _Take Felix,_ because he holds him by the back of the neck, tight enough for Felix’s collar to bite into his skin, all the way to the low table by the windows. There are lanterns already lit along the walls, and the sun setting through the curtains is a brilliant violet now, the sun just a sliver on the horizon. Dimitri hovers, unsure where to sit, but just as Claude draws breath behind Felix, Hilda pats the ground next to her own place.

“Sit next to me, your majesty,” she says. She draws Marianne onto her lap, and Marianne blushes pink, gaze fixed on her clasped hands. Dimitri smiles pleasantly and sinks to his knees, in perfect form.

“I’m not sitting on your lap,” Felix hisses, and Claude presses down on his neck, a gentle but firm suggestion.

“Not with that attitude, you won’t,” Claude says. He pushes down again, and this time, Felix kneels, hissing sharply at the sting of his sore ass on his heels. Claude arranges himself at Felix’s side and immediately starts fucking with Felix’s hair, digging his fingers in his ponytail and deliberately working it loose.

“Marianne,” Hilda says. “Can you show Dimitri how we serve dinner?”

“Oh,” Dimitri says. “No, if it’s too much trouble, I—“

“No, I—“ Marianne says. She meets his gaze for a split second and slides off Hilda’s lap, busying herself with the covered dishes. Felix’s hair is down by the time the plates are arranged and the drinks are poured, and Marianne settles back in Hilda’s lap, her back to Dimitri.

It’s similar to the setup Dimitri and Felix have at home—No awkward kneeling so Dimitri can forget he has to hand-feed his fucking submissive, just them and a table and Dimitri going on about some book he found in the library. Felix eyes Claude before he reaches for his fork, and Claude _winks._

“I _could_ feed you again,” he says, and chuckles when Felix pointedly takes a mouthful of something with too many vegetables in a thick sauce.

At the other side of the table, Hilda stares with raised brows as Dimitri politely shovels twice as much.

“Dimitri,” Claude says, as Felix’s mouth starts to burn and his eyes water. “I was wondering, how’s that cat of yours doing?”

Marianne, who is being hand-fed by a deeply smug Hilda, looks for a moment like a fox pricking up her ears in a field.

Dimitri swallows a strip of something that tastes _amazing_ to Felix but has also _set his lungs on fire._ “Annette’s watching her. You remember Annette?”

“Oh, yes, your resident poet,” Claude says. Felix would turn to stare—he didn’t think anyone else respected Annette’s singing in quite the same way—but he’s too busy trying to figure out why the water isn’t _helping._

“I didn’t know you had a cat, your majesty,” Marianne tells the table.

“She attacked Claude when he was there,” Felix manages to choke out. Dimitri gives him a curious look, and Claude leans in, their shoulders brushing. 

“Try the bread,” he whispers.

For once, Felix readily obeys.

“She was a demon and I adore her,” Claude says.

“You would,” Hilda adds, with a pointed look at Felix. Felix, whose mouth is full of bread and therefore can’t defend himself, scowls.

“Well, I should let you know about our own resident demons,” Claude says. Marianne almost looks hurt, and he quickly adds. “The human ones, Marianne, your cats are saints. I’m talking about my mother. And father, honestly. They’ll be at the talks tomorrow.”

Dimitri raises his brows. “I thought they’d abdicated.”

“Yes, but don’t tell _them_ that,” Claude says. “My father’s still part of the council of lords, and my mother will fistfight anyone who tells her to leave. _Including_ me. They’re delightful,” he adds, when Dimitri frowns slightly. “They’re just… a handful.”

“Think Claude times fifty,” Hilda says.

“That’s an image,” Felix says, and Claude sighs gustily. 

“You should be so lucky. Anyways—Dimitri, you’re doing alright over there?”

“Mm?” Dimitri takes another bite. “Oh, yes.”

Claude almost squints. “Right. Well, anyways, they’re probably going to try and monopolize you. And they’ll see right through you, fair warning—We don’t really have any rules on submissives not being allowed to take the throne, so they’ll probably expect it. So if you need an out, tell me now, because I’ll need to make plans like a day in advance to stop Mother from stealing you somewhere. Was there anywhere you wanted to go?”

Felix tries to suppress a blush of his own. He hasn’t really thought far outside the bedroom, yet, but he’d rather eat fire than admit it. 

“I… if it isn’t too much trouble,” Dimitri says, “I was reading up on it, and I heard you have—this is going to sound ridiculous—but a natural history museum? Where you’ve unearthed… some sort of creature from thousands of years ago? The book was rather vague.”

“More than one, actually,” Claude says. “And yeah. It’s in the city. A little bit of a walk, but I don’t see why we can’t go. Didn’t think you were into that kind of thing.”

“Oh, well, Felix’s father—“ Dimitri stops. He and Felix share a look, and Felix shrugs slightly. Dimitri still carries grief with him, sometimes. Felix just drowns it, burying it far enough down that he can pretend not to notice the ache. “He had ambitions of making our own display in Faerghus. But when the manor—ah.”

There it is again, the war, dragging itself into the open like one of Dimitri’s old ghosts, stirred by the wind through the curtains.

“It burned,” Felix says, too bluntly. “But it’s fine. Wouldn’t’ve lived there, anyways.”

“I always thought,” Dimitri starts, and sighs. “Well. Yes, it would have been nice. Maybe I can make another attempt, one day.”

“We can send you something,” Claude says. “On loan. One of the… there isn’t a word for it in this language.” He says something in Almyran. “Like a bird, bat thing.” He tugs at Felix’s hair, just hard enough to sting, and Felix remembers to breathe. “But speaking selfishly, I like you here, too. You can stay here if you want, when it’s over. You’ll have some time.”

“If you think you’re gonna have me dressed up like this the rest of the visit—“ Felix says, and Claude laughs and kisses him on the cheek.

“If you think I’m gonna have you dressed at _all_ …”

“Think we should give them space, or what, Mari?” Hilda asks, in a stage whisper. Marianne hides a smile. “Ok, but I have to interrupt. Dimitri. How’d you like the curry?”

“It was nice,” Dimitri says, and despite the fact that Claude’s hand is trailing down Felix’s back, Felix chokes on a laugh. “Don’t you dare, Felix.”

“He doesn’t know,” Felix says. “When we were kids, he thought it would be a good idea to uh, forage for food when we were camping with—“ Glenn, he almost says. “Family. And he ate this pepper, so.”

“Felix _Hugo_ Fraldarius.”

“Uh oh,” Hilda says.

“Full name,” Marianne adds.

“Burned off his taste buds,” Felix says, because Dimitri’s across the table, everyone can see Felix’s nipples, and honestly, he deserves it for the bath incident alone.

Claude snorts. His hand slips free of Felix’s back, and he breaks into a full laugh, hunching over his middle. “Holy shit,” he wheezes. “This whole time, I thought you were just stone cold, Dimitri! Felix’s sinuses are gonna be clear for a fucking year at this point.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Felix says, but there isn’t any heat in it.

“Eventually,” Claude gasps, still laughing, and Felix, true to form, goes beet red to his ears.

The dinner passes pleasantly enough. Marianne doesn’t talk much, but Felix doesn’t really expect her to, not from the few long, shared silences they’d shared when they crossed paths at Garreg Mach. Hilda gets Dimitri to sit on the windowsill with her while Marianne braids her hair, and Claude points out buildings and landmarks to Felix while he pretends he isn’t raking his nails up the curve of Felix’s backside. They end up with Felix propped up on the ledge of another window, the open air at his back, while Claude kisses him lazily under the darkening sky. 

The talks start almost before dawn, though, so they leave just as the temperature starts to plunge. It’s almost like a summer in Faerghus now, and Felix’s outfit flares in the breeze as he walks, prompting a wolf whistle from Hilda.

Claude kisses them both goodnight at the connecting door—his and Hilda’s (and Marianne’s, Felix supposes) bed is big enough for all of them, but Felix is still not too sure, too hesitant to ask.

The door stays open, though. Felix can hear the others getting ready for bed while he and Dimitri disrobe, and there’s something… nice, about that. It’s the sound of a routine, three people so used to each other that they can weave about in their own complex dance without even recognizing the steps.

Maybe that’s why, when he slips under the blessedly thin sheets of his and Dimitri’s bed, Felix draws Dimitri in for a kiss.

“That was nice,” Dimitri murmurs. He slides an arm under Felix’s, holding him round the waist. “Don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Felix says, because it’s Dimitri. “I guess.”

Dimitri kisses him again, light and quiet, and runs a hand through his hair. He stares at Felix for a long minute, his face unreadable in the dark.

“Does it ever scare you?” Dimitri asks. “How easy it is.”

“It’s never easy with me,” Felix says, and Dimitri’s mouth twists.

“Not like that. With Claude.”

Felix sighs and rolls onto his stomach. “It’s too late to answer that, Dima. Ask me again in the morning.”

“Of course,” Dimitri says, but Felix can still feel his gaze, the slide of fingers through his hair, even as the night draws in and the soft sound of voices in the other room drifts into formless silence.

***

No one tells a long rambling story in Peace Talks: The Almyran Edition, but that doesn’t mean it goes smoothly. In fact, halfway through the day, King Khalid is starting to consider fashioning a metaphor out of that story about the two-headed snakes guarding a despot, if only to make the former king of Almyra _be quiet for ten minutes._

The former king, his father, who is currently demanding Claude ask the King of Fodlan exactly how he removed the Emperor’s head. 

“I am not asking him that,” Claude says, under his breath. “Why would I ask him that?” 

“It is customary,” his father says, dark eyes glinting. He’s four inches taller than Claude, broader, with a full beard and Claude’s same sly smile. 

“Since _when?_ ” Claude hisses. “Since when is that customary!” 

“Every ruler should be proud of how he defeats his enemies in battle, Khalid,” Malik informs him. “We cannot form a lasting peace with a ruler who takes no pride in his victories.” 

Claude stares at the ceiling and ignores the rustling of paper coming from Hilda, seated on his right, who is passing notes down the table with his mother, Lady Tiana. Tiana, formerly of House Riegan, has her hair up in braids and is scanning Hilda’s note with the same color eyes she passed on to her son. 

She is also _no_ help. 

“Is there a problem?” Dimitri asks, from where he’s seated on Claude’s left. Despite the heat he’s in his full royal regalia, though Felix -- collared and seated at _Dimitri’s_ left, is in a version with slightly less fur. 

Claude sighs. He is definitely ready for these talks to be over. His people want this agreement, and sure, most of it is because Dimitri proved himself a capable warrior and _earned_ their respect through blood...but that doesn’t mean that Claude needs to bring it up. 

“No, no problem,” Claude assures Dimitri. 

“Did he keep her head? Mount it on his foreign hearth?” His father demands. 

“The only thing I saw over the hearth was a heraldic flag with a lion on it,” says Claude. 

His father leans forward. “A _real_ lion?” 

“Would you stop,” Claude says, snorting. He turns to Dimitri. “Lord Malik is asking about how kings in Fodlan adorn their thrones.” 

“Oh!” Dimitri, bless him, leans around Claude to say in his earnest way, “If you would translate -- traditionally we decorate with wood carvings of the four elements in harmony, to represent our respect for the Goddess and Her seasons.” 

“I thought there was only one season in Faerghus, the cold one,” says Claude. 

“Like you people should talk,” Felix mutters. 

“What is the pretty one saying?” Malik interrupts, peering over at Felix. He’s been doing that a lot. Claude guesses he and his father have similar tastes in a lot of things, which is not something he wants to think about too much. 

“You speak enough Fodlan to know what he’s saying,” Claude says, to his father. 

“He _mutters,_ Khalid,” is Malik’s response. 

“Please tell your esteemed father that Faerghus would -- ah, I mean, United Fodlan, of course -- welcome a royal visit from him and his lady wife,” Dimitri says. “If he wishes to see our capital for himself.” He waits expectantly. 

“Does he not know the the name of his country,” asks Malik. “Khalid, they’re pretty, but I question your taste.” 

“My esteemed father says thank you for the invitation,” Claude says, to Dimitri. He shoots his father a _look._

Malik smiles. “You have not told them I understand their language?” 

“Because they’ll speak it to you, and you’ll try and speak it back,” Claude says. “I know the words you know in Fodlan and you can’t say them to the king of Fodlan and his ducal consort.” 

“Hmph. I say them to your mother all the time,” Malik huffs. “She is the one who taught them to me. Now, Khalid, ask him about the Emperor.” His father’s voice slides easily into the tones of natural dominance, and even _Claude_ listens when he does that. “Unless the thought of taking the life of your foe sickens you, in which case, you are not fit to sit the throne of Almyra.” 

Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake. Claude rolls his eyes and says, “We’re talking about peace, not war, remember?” 

“There is no peace if you are not strong enough to hold it,” his father says, eyes narrowed. “Ask him, Khalid.” 

Claude would glance over at his mother but that won’t matter; she’s probably the one who wants to know. “Lord Malik would like to know the - the way by which the former Emperor of Adrestia fell.” 

Dimitri blinks; which, understandable, three seconds ago he thought Malik was asking about the decor. “I met her in single combat,” Dimitri says. Next to him, Felix’s face looks like a stormcloud. Dimitri’s voice is measured, not quite as earnest as earlier. 

Claude repeats it, though he hasn’t actually figured out _why_ he hasn’t mentioned his father understands most of the Fodlan tongue, even if he rarely bothers to speak it. Maybe he’s just used to keeping secrets. More likely he’s just trying not to start another war. 

“Hmph. That’s not what I asked, and you know it,” Malik says. He points at his son. “This king is your lover. No man who cannot own up to how he earned his throne is worthy of you, Khalid.” 

Oh, gods, why couldn’t his parents stay up north in the pine forests? He’s trying to think of a way to navigate this without Dimitri reliving the final battle against Edelgard when Dimitri says, “King Khalid, if you would teach me the correct Almyran one would use for a phrase, I believe I can answer your father in an acceptable fashion.” 

Well, Claude’s lost control of this entire thing, hasn’t he? Luckily, most of the council have left and it’s just his _parents_ sticking around to torment their son as he tries to negotiate a sticky, historic peace treaty with their eternal enemies. Because they’re the worst. “I’ll do my best,” he says, to Dimitri. 

“Tell me how to say --” Dimitri grabs the quill at his side and scribbles something down, then passes it to Claude. Claude realizes in that moment that he doesn’t have to tell Dimitri anything; Dimitri must have guessed his father at least understands some Fodlan. 

The note says _I would be honored to show you in the language of battle how I bested the Emperor of Adrestia, pride of the double eagle, wielder of Amyr, before her crimson throne._

Claude just sort of stares at him, Dimitri shrugs, and Malik peers at the paper to no avail; they use a completely different script in Almyra, so he can’t read what Dimitri’s written. 

Claude takes up the quill and writes the translation in phonetic Fodlan, then pushes it back to Dimitri. 

Dimitri raises one blond brow. “This is the correct translation? No offense, your majesty, but I do wish to speak honestly to Lord Malik.” 

“Yes, yes, it’s fine,” Claude huffs, feeling a bit like a recalcitrant teenager and resisting the urge to slump down in his chair like he used to at dinner, when his mom made fun of his archery performance that day, or laughed at his hair. 

Dimitri reads over the paper, then repeats the phrase. He mostly gets it right -- Almyran is tricky, and the way he says the word for _crimson_ sounds a bit like the slang for a man’s balls, but he must get it right enough because Malik’s smile vanishes and he says, in heavily-accented Fodlan, “I accept the honor of facing you in armed combat, King of Lions.” 

Claude sighs, but it’s lost in the noise of Felix’s sudden outburst of, “Wait, _what?_ ” and his mother’s gasp of unmitigated delight.

***

“You can’t be _serious,_ ” Felix says, as Dimitri, standing in the shade of the outdoor practice courts of the Almyran palace, quietly unclasps his cloak. Felix growls low in his throat and steps around him to help him out of his jacket. “You can’t just challenge the former king of another country.”

“Apparently, I can,” Dimitri says. “People used to spar with my father all the time, you know.” He risks a glance at Claude, standing with his mother and Hilda. Claude barely left his side on their way down the long, breezy stairway to the courts, one hand on Dimitri’s back under his cloak. He’d seemed… nervy, almost. On edge, which wasn’t like Claude. But then, no one is ever truly the same man around their parents, and Lord Malik is… formidable. Dimitri isn’t all too certain he won’t find himself dropping to his knees in the middle of the training circle, honestly. There’s no denying where Claude gets his easy dominance, in any case.

Claude is still talking to his mother and Hilda near the entrance to the circle, where Lord Malik is stripping off his shirt. Dimitri tries not to linger on the thick scars raking along his side, and plucks at his own sweat-soaked shirt instead. He peels that off, leaving only a thin, sleeveless cotton undershirt. The knife wound Edelgard gave him is stark against his skin, but Dimitri looks down at his calloused hands instead.

“He was pressuring Claude,” Dimitri says, in a low voice. “Did you notice?”

“I couldn’t see anything around your chest, Dima.”

Dimitri smiles sidelong. “Trust me, then. I think this may be the only way to resolve what may have been an unpleasant situation.”

“Just don’t kill him,” Felix says, and scowls when Dimitri bares his teeth in a bitter smile.

He’s always been good at killing.

Claude strides towards them, looking like he’s just been pushed headfirst down a metaphorical crevasse. “Heads up,” he says, in a tight voice. “Mother’s coming. And Dimitri, father had an injury in his right arm a decade ago—“

“I’ll be sure to favor the left,” Dimitri says, and Claude almost groans. He’s cut off, though, by Lady Tiana, who sweeps past him with her arms out and catches a bewildered Felix by the face.

“Duke Fraldarius!” she cries, and kisses Felix once on either cheek. “Aren’t _you_ a prize. I’ve been meaning to monopolize you all morning—Did you know I danced with your mother when we were girls?”

Felix draws himself up as best he can, which is difficult when a woman is pressing one’s cheeks together. “I, she didn’t. Say.”

“Fie on her, then—She said she would keep me in her heart’s heart for the rest of her life, and I still have that dance card. But your father _was_ handsome enough, I suppose. Come.”

“Mother,” Claude whispers.

“Oh, he doesn’t mind,” Lady Tiana says. She lets go of Felix’s face, which has colored remarkably, and holds out her hand. “Well? Is this any way for a duke to greet a lady?”

Felix mechanically bows over her hand, and she _twinkles_ at him. “Lovely. Come and entertain us while my husband shows off. I insist.”

Felix gives Dimitri and Claude a fleeting, helpless look, but Lady Tiana is as dominating as Claude at his best, and Felix is dragged off before he can come up with an acceptable excuse.

Claude mutters something in Almyran, and turns back to Dimitri. “You’re alright with this? He’s not going to go easy on you, you know.”

“You should see what pages have to go through in training back in Faerghus,” Dimitri says. He smiles to himself and ties back his hair. “Have you ever seen a group of ten-year-olds try to hunt a wolf? In winter?”

“The hell is wrong with Faerghus,” Claude says, softly, and Dimitri almost laughs.

“We don’t have time to unravel _that._ ” He waits for Claude to smile, small and still a little tense, and says, “Thank you, though. For thinking of me, before.”

Claude curls a hand around Dimitri’s neck, and Dimitri leans in to kiss him, soft and almost tender. “Try not to let him kill you.”

Dimitri grins and vaults over the wall around the training circle, where Lord Malik has already taken down a sword from a hanging rack. It’s long enough to give him reach, but flexible, and Dimitri can tell by his careful, precise movements that his broad frame belies a dangerous speed. Dimitri examines the rack, takes down a spear, and frowns. 

“Yes?” Lord Malik says. Somehow, it’s a command and a question in one, _Out with it_ and _Is something wrong?_ tied together. Dimitri has no choice but to answer.

“Too light,” he says. “Balance is…” he waves a hand, and Lord Malik nods. Ah, well, he’ll have to go with a sword. Not a scimitar—He’ll be at a disadvantage, there—He takes down a heavy, simple sword with perfect balance and worn leather around the pommel, clearly well-used.

“That was Khalid’s favorite,” Lord Malik says, and Dimitri raises his brow. “When his mother taught him the Fodlan style.”

“He trained with this?” Dimitri asks. It isn’t exactly the sort of sword one would give to a youngster, even if Dimitri himself was wielding polearms by five. He hefts it, tests the swing—It’s functional, at least. Not as long as he’d like. “Very well. If you’re ready, my lord?”

Lord Malik smiles, and it’s so like Claude at his wickedest that Dimitri feels a shiver of anticipation roll up his spine. He shifts his feet, swings himself into an offensive stance, and brings his sword up in a curving line straight towards Lord Malik’s belly.

Dimitri was right—Lord Malik is _fast._ He blocks Dimitri’s blow with no sign of the hammering his strikes tend to leave on his opponent’s sword-arms, and tries to duck around Dimitri’s side, where his eye puts him at a disadvantage. Dimitri sweeps his foot in the dust and uses it as a cover to thrust, and Lord Malik _laughs_ as the blade slides past his face. Dimitri finds himself smiling, as well—A cold smile, a cruel smile that finds him in the battlefield, when the press of soldiers falling before his spear almost feels like a challenge.

The last time he felt like this, Felix had sparred with him in the hallway in Fhirdiad, just a sword against Dimitri’s spear, each of them gaining and losing ground by mere feet before it was done. The thrill of it scares Dimitri, sometimes—can scare Felix, when he isn’t in one of his reckless, restless moods—and Dimitri can feel it creeping over him now, lending a brutal strength to his blows.

There’s nothing left but this, but the heat of the sun on Dimitri’s bare skin, the weight of the sword, the strength of Lord Malik’s arm. He’s thrown back just a step, and braces himself as Lord Malik throws himself forward in that flashy, powerful jump Claude likes to use, driving all his strength into a killing blow. Dimitri, rather than blocking him, braces himself and swings back, knocking him off guard and sending him rolling in the dust.

Claude’s favorite sword cracks in Dimitri’s hands.

He stands there a moment, holding the hilt and a few bare inches of the blade, before Lord Malik is up again, clearly not seeing this as an excuse to end the bout. Dimitri puts on a burst of speed, slides dangerously close to Malik, almost into his arms. He has half a second. A breath. An eyeblink. But it’s enough, and when Dimitri twists the hilt of the sword in Malik’s, he can feel the satisfying tug just before both swords go flying, clattering in the dust some two yards away.

He and Lord Malik stand together, gazes locked, and it takes all of Dimitri’s strength not to fall to his knees.

“Very good!” Lord Malik cries. He smacks Dimitri between the shoulders and pulls him into a rough embrace. “Very _fucking_ good. Next time, we use spears.”

Dimitri blinks. He drifts, slightly, the copper of adrenaline on his tongue, and lets Lord Malik guide him towards the gate. 

“I tell my son,” Lord Malik says, in a conspiratorial tone that nevertheless booms across the training yards. “You need a warrior. No, no simpering,” he says something, then, that makes Claude cover his face from under the awning. “And he has Hilda! I love Hilda. A very good daughter, you agree?”

Dimitri tries to agree, but Lord Malik bowls him over.

“But this is good, too,” he says. “Some kings, they make knights fight for them. They hide, they retreat.” Dimitri catches Claude pull a face. _Ah._ Lord Malik slaps his back again and pushes him through the gate. “You will be good for him.”

Dimitri struggles to find his voice through the dust in his mouth. “His majesty is an exemplary warrior in his own right,” he says, and grips the railing when Lord Malik cuts him a sharp look. “We would not have won the war without him.”

Lord Malik gives him a long, considering look, and Dimitri lets out a harsh breath when he finally turns aside. He says something to Lady Tiana, who has Felix sitting between her and Hilda like a dazed bystander in a hostage negotiation, and Lady Tiana rises with a smile. 

“We’ll have to continue this later, sweet thing,” she says to Felix, who nods slightly. “Hilda. Darling. I have something for you. They’ll match your summer dress perfectly.”

“You’re too good to me,” Hilda says.

Claude breaks free of a short, whispered conversation with his father to stand before Dimitri, brows lowered in concern. He lays a hand on Dimitri’s chest, a warm, settling presence amid the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and looks back at Hilda.

Hilda nods. “Felix,” she says. “I don’t know about you, but after watching _that,_ I definitely have to cool off. Why don’t we join Marianne in the pool and you can fan me?”

“What,” Felix says.

Dimitri sighs. “It’s fine, Felix.”

“I wasn’t asking you if it’s _fine_ —“ Felix sputters, but Hilda is already wrapping an arm around his, and some of Lady Tiana’s influence must still be weighing on him, because all he does is shoot Dimitri a look before Hilda tows him cheerfully down a covered walkway.

Then they’re alone, Claude and Dimitri, two kings standing in the heady, breathless silence. Dimitri looks down at Claude—He’s still restless, somehow, his jaw clenched just slightly, and there’s something in the fading battle-lust in Dimitri’s blood that recognizes it. Dimitri lowers himself to his knees, and Claude sighs heavily, running his hands through Dimitri’s hair.

They’re silent for a minute, Dimitri breathing steady and slow, Claude gently kneading Dimitri’s hair and scraping his nails up the back of his neck. 

“Thank you,” Claude says, at last. “I know that took something out of you.”

“Returning the favor,” Dimitri says. Claude’s thumb brushes his cheek. He leans into it, closes his eye as Claude’s fingers slide up his jaw. 

“He can be overwhelming,” Claude says. Dimitri shrugs.

“He’s not the king I’m kneeling for,” he says. Claude’s hands still in his hair, and he looks up into clear green eyes gone dark.


	3. sunlight

_He’s not the king I’m kneeling for._

Claude can hardly breathe when Dimitri says that. The words echo around in his head, make him tug his fingers through Dimitri’s hair and quietly consider how things are suddenly a lot more serious than they were that first night in Fhirdiad, when he’d asked to borrow Felix at dinner just to see what would happen.

Maybe he’d had an inkling of it, later, when he’d taken Dimitri by that thick collar and Felix by the hair and dragged them both into the royal suite. That this wasn’t just something he could let himself have for a night and then walk away from. That it was going to make him _want_.

It’s not just that he wants this, Claude realizes, playing with Dimitri’s hair. It’s that he wants to _keep_ them.

“Dimitri,” Claude sighs. This man is loved and adored, not just in Faerghus but all of Fodlan. The people call him the Savior King, and they would ride to hell and back under his banner. And he’s here, in Almyra, kneeling for Claude.

Dimitri smiles up at him and the afternoon breeze ruffles his hair; he’s so beautiful that it makes Claude want to weep or declare his undying -

Fuck, is -- is he in _love_ with Dimitri? With Felix? Is that even a thing that can happen so quickly?

“You -- you could call me Dima,” Dimitri says, all guileless and earnest. “It’s what Felix calls me.”

“Do you want me to call you that?” Claude asks, tipping his chin up. The way Dimitri just _does_ it, lets Claude bare his throat, is dizzyingly addictive.

Dimitri nods. “If you would like to, yes.”

“Dima,” Claude says, trying it out. He likes it. It feels intimate, special. It also isn’t helping his restlessness, or diffusing that warm flare of affection that is growing hotter by the minute.

Dimitri beams up at him, a scarred and violent man with the sweetest smile Claude’s ever seen. “Khalid,” he says, in that lovely deep voice of his, and that’s the thing that does Claude in. He’s heard Dimitri use his real name before, of course. Heard it in his polite formal tones across the negotiation table, read it in Dimitri’s neat handwriting on letters. But never like this, in an intimate moment between the two of them.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Dima, but I wish you weren’t a king. I wish I could keep you, and Felix, naked and collared at my throne.” He wants that so badly, and he can’t have it. No amount of scheming will make it possible, and Claude hates that but it’s the truth.

“It is not an unpleasant fantasy, is it.” Dimitri gives Claude a look, shrewd, like he did at the negotiations when he’d figured out Claude was trying to run interference with his father. “There are benches, there, in the shade. Near the fountain with the cloud-woman and those...are they arrows?”

“Sort of,” Claude says, glancing over toward the fountain question. “She’s the representation of the sky and the stars are her arrows. It’s an Almyran foundation myth. One of them, anyway.”

“Oh,” Dimitri says. “Yes. I should like to see that.” He stays where he is until Claude gives a slight nod, and then Dimitri climbs to his feet with a grace that should not be possible, given his height and how _much_ of him there is.

They walk a few feet over to the fountain, and Claude sits on the bench while Dimitri kneels again in front of him. The bench is low enough that it almost puts them at the same height. “Khalid,” Dimitri says, thrilling Claude again with the name, “may I kiss you?”

“Of course,” Claude says, laughing though the sound is more of a choked exhale than anything.

Dimitri kisses him, and for a man capable of such breathtaking violence it is gentle, almost reverent. “What’s the matter?”

That he can tell only makes the feeling _worse_. Claude kisses Dimitri back, then presses his forehead against Dimitri’s and says, “why do you think something’s wrong?” Deflecting, his favorite tactic when he doesn’t know what to do, or what to say.

Dimitri huffs a laugh against his mouth. “Am I wrong?”

Claude snorts and gives his lower lip a brief nip before pulling back. “Answering a question with a question is _my_ trick, Dima.”

Dimitri laughs. “And I am well-used to a moody creature attempting to distract me with biting. Please, Claude -- Khalid. Tell me what’s wrong?”

Claude sighs and glances for a moment at the woman pointing her arrows up at the sky. He’s always loved this statue. Not just reaching for the impossible, but actively putting your effort into attaining it. “I’m not a man who likes to admit defeat, Dima. And I want something I can’t have.” Even saying it sends a pang through his chest. He never meant to get this emotionally invested. Claude glances at the statue again. Like that personification of his homeland, he’s used to keeping his distance.

“Mmm,” says Dimitri, taking Claude’s hands in his own. “I understand. I spent years submitting to nothing but the demands of my ghosts, thinking their vengeance was the purpose to which I’d been spared my life in Duscur. It was in my nature to submit, and I thought, for the first time, that it was the reason I wasn’t born a dominant like my father before me. I was not meant to lead, I was meant to avenge. It was the reason Felix was so angry, you see. He knew what I was, and what I was _not_. But he wanted me to serve the living, not the dead.”

Claude thinks about this, bringing one of Dimitri’s hands to his mouth and ghosting his lips over Dimitri’s scarred, calloused hands. “That does seem like something Felix would say.”

“Indeed. And he was right. But I was afraid,” says Dimitri, this man who just bested a seasoned warrior and former king of a rival nation in a fight. “The dead were already angry. The living, I could disappoint.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Claude says, squeezing his hand again. “You’re a good king. A good man.”

“As are you,” Dimitri says. “I’m still afraid of hurting people I love. I know that there are parts of me that I will never get rid of. Submissive, dominant, it did not matter on the battlefield. I killed and there was part of me that enjoyed it. I told myself it was because I did it in service of the dead who demanded I satisfy their restless spirits in the blood of my enemies. But perhaps that was a lie I told myself to feel better about it. In fact, it must have been. There are no ghosts. As Felix is so fond of telling me, we owe nothing to the dead, only the living.”

Claude brings Dimitri’s hands to his mouth, ghosts his lips over Dimitri’s scarred and calloused hands. “War brings out the best and worst in all of us, Dima. I killed and schemed and lied, and I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again if I had to, because I would.”

“Yes. But war brings a singular focus, doesn’t it? It gives us a reason. A purpose. We are trained for it as children in Faerghus, and it seems it is much the same, here. But the war is over, and we must find a way to open our hearts to the future.”

“Dimitri,” Claude says, amused. “You sound like you’re giving me a state address. Believe me, a future of peace between our countries is all I’ve ever wanted.”

Dimitri says, “And what will you have for yourself, when you’ve found it?”

Claude doesn’t know what to say to that. He sighs. “I suppose I thought that would be enough. It’s not as if a peace treaty magically makes everything sunshine and rainbows, I know that. There’s still work to be done, there always will be.”

“Yes, of course. But that does not mean we cannot take something for ourselves. I do not want to be like my stepmother, whose heart grew dark with despair because she lived the life she thought she was supposed to and saw no way out of her misery but murder. I do not want to lose myself to five years of grief again. And you should have someone to make use of those lovingly appointed rooms you’ve given to Felix and I.”

Claude flushes at that. “It hardly seems the same, does it? Wanting to have submissives all the time is not quite on the same level as Duscur or your own struggles with the past.”

“No, that’s not...my point is, I don’t think you let very many people in, Khalid,” says Dimitri, still pinning Claude with that sharp one-eyed stare. “You’ve spent a long time hiding your nature, just as I did. We tell ourselves it is for the best, that we have a reason, but sometimes it is not easy to admit those reasons have changed and that we no longer need to hide.”

Claude thinks about this. Dimitri’s not wrong. There must be a reason Claude’s never allowed himself to have a submissive for longer than a night before -- is it because giving in to that part of his nature feels like making himself vulnerable? Probably. It’s having someone depend on him, without a clear extraction plan in case it all goes wrong. “I’ve always been able to walk away, or fly away, or whatever. It’s the hallmark of a ranged fighter, I guess, if we’re using war metaphors.”

“We’re warriors. And I’m not nearly as good with words as you are, so I’m going with what I know.”

“You’re a lot better at it than you think you are,” says Claude, and draws him in to kiss him again. “You’re not wrong. I don’t like to let people close to me. I guess it really is that simple.” He has to laugh. “It’s easier to be the one walking away.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I do not intend to lock myself up in Fhirdiad and ignore my responsibilities to the newly unified kingdom of Fodlan,” Dimitri says. “There is no need to keep the court snowbound in Faerghus for the winter, when Enbarr and even Derdriu are much more temperate. Perhaps it might be of use to spend some time this winter near Fodlan’s Locket, for instance, to ensure our treaty is well-met by the former Alliance lords.”

“Yeah, have fun with that, they _love_ me,” Claude drawls, and kisses him, lazy and slow, while he thinks. The restlessness settles a bit, even though his heart is now racing at what they’re saying, here. That this isn’t just a fun little diversion amidst a stressful, world-changing peace summit. That this isn’t about the rest of the world at all. “You would really do that?”

“Would you?” Dimitri asks, pulling back.

“Well I do seem to be getting the best part of this deal, don’t I?”

Dimitri looks pleased. “A matter of opinion. But yes, I think if you would have us, we would be yours. If you want us.”

Of course Claude wants them. This is what he needs, the thing he’s never had -- someone submitting, _obeying_ , without him scheming or having to hide his name or his nature to accomplish it. Someone who can take the full force of who he is, and _wants_ to. Wants to kneel not because Claude’s the King Khalid of Almyra, but just because he snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground and told him to. Or, in Felix’s case, grabbed him by the hair and _made_ him.

“I want you both,” Claude says. “Not just for the visit. I want that room to be yours -- yours and Felix’s -- for as long as you want it to be.” It’s different knowing the room would be empty simply because they weren’t there, rather than it not belonging to anyone at all.

“Felix is rather fond of that bath,” Dimitri says.

Claude draws him in and kisses him soundly. “Speaking of, we should probably go rescue him from my wife’s clutches. She’s devious. She probably really does have him fanning her and Marianne both in the pool.”

Claude gets to his feet, noting with a surge of satisfaction that Dimitri remains kneeling until he says, “You may stand,” and then he does. “By the way, you certainly impressed my father. Good job, that’s not easy to do.”

Dimitri looks pleased as he follows Claude down one of the paths leading to the outdoor pool, where Hilda, Marianne, and Claude’s mom are all three lounging on chairs submerged a few inches deep in the water. The pool is made of natural stone and has water piped in from a nearby oasis and underwater spring, meaning the water stays mostly cool in the heat.

There’s a larger version of the waterfall in the submissive’s -- _no, Dimitri and Felix’s_ \-- chamber, and there is also one very scowly Duke Fraldarius holding a massive palm leaf and using it to fan all three of them.

They have kindly allowed him to take off his boots and roll up his pants so he can at least get some benefit from the cold water, and there’s a canvas set up behind all of them to block some of the sun.

“ _There_ you are,” Felix says, the second he spots them. “Dimitri, you’re the one that likes service, _you_ come over here and do this.”

Dimitri, bless him, takes a step -- but Claude catches his arm to keep him from moving and says, “No. Felix, you don’t give him orders, I do. You’re excused when my lady mother tells you you’re excused.”

Felix gives him a withering look. “I really hate you.”

“Mmm,” says Claude. “Remind me to spank you later for your impertinent mouth.” He turns to the women, giving them a bow. “Lady Mother. Queen Hilda. Lady Marianne.”

“Son,” his mother says, with a nod.

“Hi, baby,” says Hilda.

Marianne gives a little wave, and Claude notices her eyes go immediately to Dimitri and isn’t _that_ interesting.

“Dima,” says Claude. “Go stand over next to Marianne, she looks like she’s getting a sunburn and I bet you’ll block most of it.” That isn’t really how the sun works, but Claude’s got a plan, here.

“Oh, of course,” Dimitri says, seemingly pleased to have a task -- of course -- going to immediately stand next to Marianne and...honestly he does provide about as much shade as a tree, given his resemblance to one.

Hilda gives him a thumbs-up, and Claude winks at her.

“Is Felix performing well?” he asks, starting to take off his formal wear -- might as well take advantage of the pool while he’s out here. They’re free the rest of the day, and after the weight of the emotional conversation he just had with Dimitri, he’s in the mood for a little light-hearted fun.

“He could do better,” says Hilda. She tilts her head up and says, “I’ve seen you fight, Felix. That leaf is _way_ less heavy than a _sword_. You could do that faster.”

“I could,” says Felix, and doesn’t.

“Then do so,” his mother says, and Claude laughs under his breath as Felix tries so hard not to, and then starts moving the palm leaf faster with a murderous expression. Lady Tiana beams at Claude. “You’ve done well for yourself, darling boy.”

Claude smiles. “I have, haven’t I.”

***

The nice thing about Almyran outdoor pools is that they’re constructed for leisure; complete with the built-in submerged stone chairs and the waterfall, as well as the raised ledges where one can put a drink or two. The bubbling cool water is mostly warmed by the sun, so in the summer it’s only cold when you swim down to where the springwater is pumped in.

Dimitri asks a few questions about the way it works, of course, curious about how it works.

“When I first came here with Malik, I was amazed at all the technology,” Lady Tiana says, sipping the iced fruit drink one of the servants brought her. “I thought Malik was making up telescopes when he told me about them. I think I punched him. Once for trying to trick me, then again after he showed me the moon in one.” She slides her son a glance. “That might have been the night you were conceived, Khalid.”

Claude, who has stripped down to an undershirt and his shorts, pauses at the side of the pool. “Could you maybe. Not say that? Ever?”

“Why? Do you think Felix and Dimitri don’t know where children come from?” His mother asks, smiling sweetly at him. “Don’t be such a prude, son.”

“I like seeing Claude embarrassed, it hardly ever happens,” says Hilda, giggling. “And you know, it wouldn’t surprise me if Dimitri and Felix _don’t_ know, because I bet they teach you in Faerghus that babies come from like, the snow. Or killing something.”

“That’s not wrong,” says Dimitri. “All the snow and hunting does lead to a lot of new births in the spring.”

“No one ever explained the process to me,” Marianne says. “But I spent enough time in the stable to figure it out.”

“Of course, because you’re smart. Holst told me once that babies are made when a mommy and a daddy defend a fort from invaders,” Hilda continues. “I knew that was shit when I was seven.”

“Battle does get the blood going,” Lady Tiana says. “Khalid would have had so many siblings if I could have had more children.”

“Mother,” Claude says, staring up at the sky. “Please stop.”

“No,” Hilda says, laughing harder. “I love it. C’mon, Claude, your dad’s hot.”

“Thanks, darling daughter,” says Tiana, beaming. “For your sake, I do hope Khalid inherited his father’s--”

Claude decides that’s as good a moment as any to jump in -- and aim his splash right at his mother, which based on the shriek, he must have succeeded. Seconds later, he feels someone grab his feet and yank him back under the water -- when he comes up he’s sputtering, and even _Felix_ is laughing, so maybe it’s worth it that he just got almost-drowned by his own mother.

Nice of her to remind Claude that even kings aren’t immune to being embarrassed by their parents. Thank the gods his father didn’t show up -- he thinks swimming clothes are absurd and doesn’t bother wearing any. Claude’s used to that, but probably the rest of them wouldn’t be.

While Claude coughs up half the pool, his mother swims a few idle laps and then heads back to the side. She climbs regally out of the water, then says to Felix, “You’re doing a lovely job with your duties, Duke Fraldarius. I should like to spar with you sometime. Your father was quite the swordsman, I’d like to see if you inherited his skills.”

Felix, to Claude’s eternal shock and amusement, _drops the fan_ and sputters. Tiana’s laugh is a feminine version of Claude’s at his most deviously amused, and she pats Felix on the shoulder before grabbing a thin silk robe and making her farewells.

The second Tiana is gone, Claude swims over and up on the ledge between the submerged stone chairs where Hilda and Marianne are. He pushes his hair out of his face and laughs when he sees Felix has recovered the palm branch without being asked, and Dimitri is still trying to block out the sun for Marianne.

_My family_ , Claude thinks, and has to blink a lot, a bit overwhelmed by the intense rush of his feelings. The drop from earlier seems to have eased, but he suddenly wants to put his hands all over -- all of them. Even Marianne, though all he wants to do with her is pet her hair and tell her she’s awesome and how happy she makes Hilda.

“Dima, Felix, why don’t you come join me for a swim? I’m sure you’re hot in those clothes.” Claude grins. “Unless you want to keep being a fan, Felix.”

Felix doesn’t hesitate pulling at his clothes -- he must be hot, his face is all flushed -- but he stops and looks like he’s not sure if he should strip all the way, since they’re in public and Claude is also still wearing his undershirt and shorts.

Which, if he knows his mother, and he does, she probably assumes that they’re going to enjoy themselves in the pool and isn’t going to return to embarrass Claude further. He pulls his wet undershirt off and tosses it on the side, then shimmies out of his shorts and grins up at them as he twirls those around his finger and sends them flying to join his shirt. “I’m not shy, no reason for anyone else to be.”

“Thank the saints,” Felix mutters, and his desire to not be hot seems to overcome any sense of modesty; he strips naked and dives into the pool before Hilda can even get her wolf-whistle out. Dimitri moves away from Marianne’s side, though not before he finds the linen canopy and moves it to where he was standing.

Marianne gives him a shy smile and ducks her head. “Thank you, Dimitri,” she says, softly.

“Of course.” Dimitri disrobes methodically, folding everything and placing it on one of the tables nearby. He then says -- _he actually says out loud, while naked_ \-- “Ladies, I apologize for the scarring, I know it’s unsightly. If it makes you uncomfortable I can certainly put my shirt back on.”

“Oh, Goddess, are you _serious_?” Hilda stares at him like she can’t believe he’s a real person, which, relatable. “Just go swim and let us stare at you.”

“Your scars don’t bother me,” Marianne says, earnestly, drawing her bare legs up and wrapping her arms around them. Her swim attire is a little more modest than Hilda’s, though Hilda will probably have her out of it soon enough. “Only that it pains me to know that you were hurt.”

Hilda smiles the sappiest, sweetest smile at Marianne. “Of course it does. Sorry, Dimitri, I just think they’re hot.”

“You would,” Felix says, surfacing. “Dimitri, get in here, already.”

“That’s Felix for _I think your scars are hot, too_ ,” Claude says. “See, I’m learning.”

Felix scowls, of course, but he doesn’t deny it. Dimitri doesn’t jump in the pool, instead choosing to wade in -- and both Hilda _and_ Marianne are unabashedly staring at his back and his ass while he wades in. Claude catches Hilda’s eyes and she mimics a round of applause; Claude pretends to bow in the water.

“You’re welcome,” he says, as Dimitri ducks down to wet his hair, rising from the water like some sort of pale, battle-worn sea god. “You are _very_ welcome.”

***  
***

It’s all rather a bit like cats.

Not that Marianne says this aloud, of course. It’s true all the same—Felix, who is still struggling to hide the relief on his face as he drifts in the water, is like one of the tough young toms by the stables who plop to their sides the moment she pets them, trying to act all aloof while she feels the rumble of a purr under her fingers. Dimitri’s more of a lion, perhaps, though that isn’t _quite_ right, because male lions are just a bunch of cowards, really.

Dimitri certainly isn’t a coward. She remembers catching glimpses of him on the battlefield—Dimitri, cutting bloody swathes through the enemy like a wild creature, his eyes cold and glassy and yet so very _focused_. She prefers to think of him like this, though, smiling into a kiss as Claude tugs him down, the scars of his back long-since healed. Violence can make an open wound of a person; Marianne knows that better than most. It’s nice to be reminded of healing, too; of wounds closing, skin stitched together again. Soft touches and silent laughter. People made whole.

“I can’t believe they’re making me swim,” Hilda says, as Felix and Dimitri are drawn by Claude as though on an invisible line, heading for the waterfall.

“You don’t have to,” Marianne says.

Hilda snorts. “Oh, yes I do.” She gets up with an aggrieved sigh, and Marianne smiles and swings her legs off the side of her chair. Hilda is glorious in the light of the afternoon, and Marianne can’t help but turn to her, like the flowers on her balcony that unfurl to face the sun.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t interested,” Hilda says from over her shoulder. She holds out a hand, and what can Marianne do but take it?

Claude has Felix by the collar by the time they wade into the pool, backing him into one of the underwater benches carved into the side. Felix goes soft around the edges when Claude rises on his knees over him, and Marianne wonders if he even knows how he looks, whether he can see his face in Marianne’s when Hilda smiles at her.

He probably doesn’t. It’s cats again; He’d rather hiss and spit than admit he purrs in private.

Hilda sprawls on the bench next to them, of course—the water just rises to her chest, almost caressing her, and she doesn’t have to do more than raise a brow for Marianne to settle into her lap. Beside them, Dimitri swims under the waterfall with the softest gasp of pleasure.

“You could have warned us that your mother was _the_ Lady Tiana Von Riegan,” Felix says, when Claude lets him up for air. “I nearly made a fool of myself for a moment there.”

“Nearly?” Hilda whispers in Marianne’s ear. Marianne stifles a smile, and Hilda pulls her hand down, a firm reminder. _No hiding_. Marianne’s smile broadens despite herself, and Hilda makes that _face_ and slides her hands up Marianne’s stomach to cup her breasts.

_Oh._

“You know of my mother, then,” Claude says, in a slightly deadened voice.

“Of course,” Felix says. “She’s a _legend_ in Fraldarius.”

“For her beauty,” Claude says, like he always does when someone mentions his mother like this. Marianne would feel more sympathetic, truly she would, but Hilda’s fingers slide under her top and her smile is positively _wicked_ —

“What? No,” Felix says. Hilda stops just before she lifts Marianne’s top completely, and Marianne suppresses a sound of dismay. This is terrible. Marianne is almost _cross_ with Felix. “No, we’re talking about Tiana Von Riegan, Claude. The swordswoman who nearly killed my father in a duel with a thrust that would have driven a straight line to the heart. I only mastered that move three years ago. Can you imagine—the _skill_ she has with the blade, if I could just ask her about the duel with Margrave Gautier’s house swordsman in the year of—“

“Here he goes,” Dimitri says, from the shadow of the waterfall. Claude looks almost stricken.

“Wait,” he says. “Are you saying… Felix, do you have a _crush_ on my _mother_?”

Felix colors alarmingly. “No. I simply admire her _skill_.”

“Which means yes,” Dimitri says. Felix scowls.

“This is the best news I’ve heard all day,” Hilda murmurs, and gives Marianne a squeeze that has her biting her lip. Claude shoots Hilda a look.

“You aren’t telling her,” he says.

She most certainly will. Today, most likely.

“No wonder you’re halfway decent with the sword,” Felix says, and Dimitri and Claude make the same sort of funny little sound at that, like they don’t know whether to be outraged or find Felix strangely adorable.

Again. Further proof of the cat theory.

“Halfway decent?” Claude says. “Well. If you’re such an expert with the sword…” He twists Felix around so he’s stretched out on the bench, and when he straddles Felix’s hips, Felix makes _such_ a sound.

“And look at that,” Hilda says, and Marianne follows her gaze to find Dimitri emerging from behind the waterfall. The spray glistens on his skin, water trailing in rivulets down his bare chest and along his abdomen, and Marianne gasps as Hilda drags her top roughly over her breasts, exposing them to the world at large and King Dimitri in particular.

Not that they haven’t… discussed this, before. Marianne doesn’t mind others seeing her, not when it’s Hilda petting and praising her and treating her like something precious, but her cheeks burn and she looks back at Hilda all too quickly.

“You can look, sweet girl,” Hilda says, and kisses her, soft and wicked. She tugs at Marianne’s top, which comes loose easily, barely tied just for this purpose. “ _I’m_ looking. Dimitri? Be a dear and fetch Marianne’s hat from the chair. I don’t want my girl to burn.”

Marianne jumps when the skirt-like piece at her waist slithers free, and blushes deeply as Dimitri nods his assent with little more than the faintest pink tinge to his cheeks.

“Do you need anything else, your majesty?” He asks, but he looks at Marianne first, and he flashes her a quick, reassuring smile. He doesn’t seem to mind that she’s naked in Hilda’s lap, but then, Felix is currently naked with Claude in _his_.

They do make quite the pair, don’t they?

Hilda preens at the title—she always does—and gives him a secretive little tilt of the head. “Not yet.”

“So,” Hilda whispers, as Dimitri starts to swim off, graceful in the clear water. “When did _this_ happen?”

Beside them, Felix is quickly falling apart. Claude rakes his nails down Felix’s shoulders as he grinds down, commanding Felix to _stay still_ , and Felix is letting out soft, urgent _ah, ahs_ with his lips parted and his eyes half lidded already. Hilda twists Marianne’s nipples, just enough to send a spark of pleasure jolting through her, and Marianne makes a soft sound of her own.

“He was always… nice, at the monastery,” she admits, in a quiet voice. “Genteel. He went out of his way to make me feel comfortable.”

“As he should.” Hilda’s smile goes wide. “You wanted to submit to him, didn’t you?”

“Oh, well, I…” Marianne glances over her shoulder to make sure Dimitri is well out of earshot. He’s bending over their chairs, looking down at the bag Marianne brought with her to the pool. “I just want to—wanted to, pet his hair, maybe, and, and _oh_ ,” she gasps, as Hilda kisses the curve of her neck. “Cuddle, a little? And he is very, ah. _Ah_ , rather, his face is, is kinder now—“

“Beg me and I’ll ride you, Felix,” Claude says, and whatever he’s done under the water, Felix _moans_ , low and beautiful. Hilda rubs a thumb just above where Marianne needs it, and she locks her hands behind her back and tries not to squirm in her lap.

“Sweet, lovely, thoughtful Marianne,” Hilda says, and kisses Marianne so deeply that Marianne almost doesn’t hear the smack of a hand on skin, Felix’s gasping cry. “I could ask him to fetch a star for you and I bet he would. It’s what you deserve.” She slides her fingers down further, slips them into the heat of her, crooks just perfectly to have Marianne tipping forward onto her shoulder.

“Do you trust me to take care of you, Mari?” Hilda asks, so sweetly.

“ _Please_ ,” Felix gasps, from somewhere in the far distance. “ _Please let me fuck you_.”

“ _Wrong question, pretty thing_.”

“Yes,” Marianne says. Hilda, who never puts in the work for anyone if she doesn’t have to, anyone but Marianne, circles her clit and fucks into her and has Marianne lying helpless and trembling with her lips pressed to Hilda’s neck, wrists still obediently held at her back.

“Do you trust me to give you what you want?” Hilda asks.

“ _Please just, just use me, then, do what you want, just do what you want, Claude_.”

“ _Call me Khalid, and ask me again_.”

“Yes,” Marianne wails, and Hilda pets her hair with her free hand while she makes her shake and seize and moan with the other, bringing her to her peak.

“ _Please, Khalid_.”

“Come for me, Marianne,” Hilda says, and holds her as she pushes her over, as Marianne pants through it, chest heaving, water swirling around them. She kisses Marianne, after, while Claude lines Felix up and sinks onto him with a groan of pleasure, and Marianne just sees Hilda hold up a hand to keep Felix from slipping back into the water. Felix blinks, but says nothing, and Marianne kisses down Hilda’s neck and luxuriates in the sensation of being pressed to her, naked and still floating a little, blessedly content. Hilda is so good to her. So giving.

“What would you like me to do for you?” Marianne asks, as Claude starts to ride Felix, hands on Felix’s thighs to hold him down. He sets a brutal pace, and Felix is already gasping out soft curses into the air.

“I want you beneath me for the rest of the day,” Hilda says, stroking her back. “But not right now. Right now, I want you to feel _good_ , Marianne, because you _are_ good and you’re _mine_ and you _deserve_ it. Dimitri.”

Marianne is too pleased and quiet inside to be alarmed by the fact that Dimitri has been patiently waiting with Marianne’s hat in his hands. He’s certainly blushing now, but Marianne just smiles at him, and Hilda slips her off her lap and onto the bench.

“Help Marianne with her hat,” Hilda orders, and Dimitri lifts a knee to the submerged bench so he can face her. He’s so tall up close, so imposing, but there’s that softness to his eyes, and his fingers are so gentle as he brushes a lock of hair from Marianne’s face before he fits the hat over her brow. The brim is wide enough to bow a little, and Marianne lifts it with one hand and stares up at him.

“Doesn’t my girl look beautiful?” Hilda asks.

“Yes,” Dimitri says. Marianne’s stomach swoops. “She is.”

“Hold her for me,” Hilda says. Claude is watching them from over her shoulder, even as he drags back Felix’s hair and scratches his nails down the side of his neck. “She burns so easily, and there’s so much of you to block the sun. You don’t mind, of course.”

“Not at all,” Dimitri says. He glances at Marianne. They both look away at once, and Hilda makes a suppressed sound of delight.

“Let him hold you,” Hilda says, and kisses Marianne one more time. “I’m going to admire my husband’s work.”

Marianne looks back at Dimitri, who angles himself so that his back is to the sun, and gently, gently eases onto his lap.

“I apologize if you—“ Dimitri pauses for a moment as Claude kisses Felix, then pushes down on his chest. Felix falls back under the surface, and comes up again a moment later, gasping hoarsely. “If I make you uncomfortable, or if you want to leave…”

“Hilda doesn’t like to see me uncomfortable,” Marianne says. “I would say something.” She leans against his chest, and he wraps an arm around her so gently, the way Hilda does after a particularly long scene when Marianne needs a little extra attention. Or… any time, with Hilda, really. Except there’s more of Dimitri, and when she lays a hand on his chest, she can feel the puckered skin of a scar above his abdomen.

Felix gasps again, and this time, when Hilda grabs his hair and Claude fucks himself harder on Felix’s cock, making his hips jerk under the water, Felix nearly sobs.

“ _Two_ of you,” he says.

“Oh, poor Felix,” Marianne murmurs. Dimitri chuckles, and his laugh is warm under her hand. She lays her head on his chest and feels the rapid beat of his heart.

“You like it,” Claude says. “Do you?”

“Tell us, Felix,” Hilda says, all sweetness. “Be a good boy.”

“Oh fucking goddess,” Felix says.

“That’s a yes,” Dimitri whispers, but Claude makes him say it, first, before he pushes him under again.

It’s hard to ignore what this does to Dimitri, watching his lover sob and thrash and gasp _yes, fuck, don’t stop, I don’t want you to stop_ , in that anguished voice with his eyes closed and arms tensing, but Dimitri doesn’t do anything, just conscientiously tries to adjust her so she doesn’t have to feel him beneath her. Marianne shifts, slightly, to get a look at him, and Dimitri’s composure almost cracks.

“It’s alright,” she says.

“Oh.”

_Very eloquent_ , she thinks, and when she smiles at her own private joke, Dimitri tips the brim of her hat up again to get a better look at her.

“You smile more, now,” he says. “It suits you.”

Her smile wavers, broadens, and she reaches up to cover his hand with hers. “It suits you, as well.”

“You two,” Hilda says, turning to place both hands on Marianne’s knees, “are _adorable_. Claude. They’re _adorable_.”

“Darling,” Claude says, wrapping one arm around Felix’s shoulders as he slows and holding them both up with the other. “I know.”

“Well, we should _do_ something about it,” Hilda says. “I _reward_ my girl when _she’s_ adorable. I want to have Mari stroke Dimitri off while you ruin Felix forever, baby.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Felix says.

Marianne sucks in a shivery breath. Dimitri’s cock feels harder still, and when she sits up at the hungry look in Hilda’s eyes, he gasps slightly. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Dimitri,” Claude says. It’s a question, in a way, and Dimitri’s chest rises, a hitch in his breath.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says.

Marianne feels light, the way she does when Hilda compliments her so much her head spins—the king of Fodlan _wants_ this, wants her to _serve_ him. Or, well. They’re both serving, really, but… but being wanted… it’s still such a heady feeling.

“Let her bring you off, Dima,” Claude says. “You have my permission to come.”

“Show him how good you are, sweetheart,” Hilda says, and Marianne turns in his lap, just enough to face him. He still has an arm around her, keeping her secure, and when she wraps her fingers around his length, he shivers pleasantly.

She hasn’t really done this before. Oh, perhaps Hilda’s lovely gold one with the soft strappy harness and the slight curve counts, but that’s usually for show, but Dimitri already looks flushed from just a few strokes, and Marianne has seen Hilda with Claude often enough to get an idea for it. Behind her, all she can hear is gasping moans, Claude whispering filthy promises into Felix’s ear, telling him how he’ll chain him to the bed, one day, what he’ll look like crawling through the halls… Dimitri hardens under her touch, and he bites down a soft moan.

“Hilda doesn’t like me to hide how it feels,” she whispers, and hears a soft murmur from where Hilda sits behind her. Dimitri stops biting his lip, though, and Marianne tries to match the speed of the sounds behind her, watches his eye go dark and his breathing stutter. Felix sobs out a plea, and Dimitri’s hips jerk under her as he tries to stop himself from thrusting up into her hand. He comes like this, with a low cry partly for Claude, partly for Hilda, but the tightening of his arm around her waist is all for Marianne, and she rises up out of the water to hold his head in her hands.

“May I kiss him?” she asks.

“Yes,” Claude says, breathless.

“Absolutely,” Hilda adds.

Dimitri looks up at her, standing naked over his panting form, her light blue hair hanging in loose strands over her shoulders, and she bends down to kiss his forehead. She kisses his temple next, then his brow, then his cheek, stroking his hair back as she does.

“I would like to braid your hair,” she says, when she pulls away to find him smiling up at her. “And show you the aviary, and make you tea and read a book together when things are quiet.”

Dimitri stares at her, for a moment. It may be the most she’s ever said to him at once.

“Thank you,” he says. “That would be nice.”

“I vote we keep him,” Hilda says, and Dimitri actually laughs. She climbs out of the pool, tossing back her hair, while Claude eases Felix back to himself. “Dimitri, carry Marianne back to her chair. Then carry _me_.”

“What happened to checking with me, first?” Claude asks, but he isn’t serious, really. Besides, Dimitri is already standing, casting a long shadow over the water. He bows, and Marianne just stops herself from dipping a curtsy.

“Lady Marianne,” he says. He holds out a hand.

She takes it. “King Dimitri.”

With that, Dimitri scoops her up in his arms, and Marianne, who always hid herself behind her hair and her fear and her loneliness in the long years of her early life, claps her hands to her cheeks and laughs.

***  
The night breeze is cool as Claude gently rubs a magic-infused aloe salve on Hilda’s shoulders. She’s naked, sprawled on their bed with her hair twisted up, fresh from the bath. Next to her, Marianne is curled up, sleeping deeply with her damp hair twisted up for sleep.

“Ow, Claude,” Hilda whines, into the pillow. “That hurts!”

“I know, sweetheart, it stings but then it feels better, yeah?” Claude puts a little more of the salve on her skin. He smiles. “Your skin matches your hair and your eyes, now.”

Hilda turns her head and smiles up at him. Her nose is sunburned. It’s cute. She’s cute. A handful in a totally different way than, say, Felix. Claude, bare-chested in a pair of loose sleep pants, draws his fingers over the curve of her back. “You’re so pretty.”

“I know,” says Hilda. “You had a good day, huh.”

“Mm. Yeah.” Claude finishes with her back. “Wanna roll over and I’ll put some of this on your chest, too?”

She snorts. “Nice try, buddy. Aren’t you tired? You should totally be tired.”

“I am,” Claude assures her. “But I’m never too tired to rub your breasts, give me some credit.”

“Aw. Sap. I’m okay, though. What about you? Your shoulders look a little burned.” She yawns. “Call Dimitri in here to put some on you. I’m never too tired to watch _other_ people rub _your_ chest.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement on this,” he says, and leans down to press a kiss between her shoulder blades. “Mmm. I love how many muscles you have. It’s hot. Gets me all worked up. C’mon, star of my sky, show me those biceps.”

Hilda snort-giggles again into the pillow. “We’re both dom-drunk.”

Claude flashes a grin at her. “We are. Yeah. For sure.” He draws his fingers down her back, feels her cool skin. “Marianne was okay with everything, yeah?” He glances at his wife’s submissive, but she’s still dead-to-the-world asleep.

“She was. She’s kinda had a cuddle-crush on Dimitri since, like, the Academy.”

“A...cuddle-crush?” That’s a new one.

“Mmhmmm.” Hilda shifts on the silk sheets sighing. “Ahh, that feels good now. Anyway, yeah, like, she doesn’t want to fuck him or anything. I asked if she wanted to submit to him, and she was like, in her cute voice, you know, _oh, no, Hilda, I just wanted to pet his hair and share a book with him_.”

“Share...how do you share a book? You mean read it at the same time? What if you read faster than the other person?”

“Stop,” Hilda says, giggling. “You know what I mean. She told me later she wants to snuggle him and braid his hair.”

“Ah.” Claude laughs and flops down on his back next to her. “That’s adorable. She can. You wanna lay on me?”

“Mm, yeah.” She scoots over and drapes herself on top of him. She feels good, skin sun-warm, hair tickling his nose. “So you’re happy.”

“Of course I’m happy.” He glances down at her, playing idly with her hair while she shifts, arranging herself so she can play with the pendant he always wears. “The peace talks went well, my father didn’t kill Dimitri and told me he was proud of me for getting a submissive who’s a king, which I guess no one in our line has done since my great-great-great-something grandfather had an arrangement with the King of Morfis. Then I got to fuck Felix in a waterfall while my wife held him under, and your lovely sweet girl climbed in Dimitri’s lap and stroked him off. Oh, and I’m never getting over how Felix totally has a crush on my mom because of her _swordsmanship_.”

“Thanks for the recap,” Hilda says. “I didn’t know that about your ancestor and the King of Morfis, though. All I know about Morfis is that plums come from there. And they make a liquor out of it that one time made my brother and Baltie so sick, they threw up purple vomit for a week.”

“Your stories are not great, sweetheart.”

“Oh, hush. That’s some top-level intel on how to taunt them, right there.” She peers up at him, blinking sleepy pink eyes at him. “So, are we going to talk about this now, or....?”

“How I’m now sending your brother and Balthus a case of Morfis plum liquor for every holiday, or…?”

Hilda claps her hand over his mouth. “No, baby. I mean the part where you’re in love.”

Claude takes her hand away and says with his most charming smile, “Of course I love you. You’re the best.”

“Claude -- _Khalid_ \-- this doesn’t work on me. It’s never worked on me. We’ve had each other’s number since the moment we met, don’t pretend to be stupid. I believe that as much as you believe my fake tears, so.” She presses a soft kiss to his shoulder. “Answer my question.”

Damn it, she’s right. Claude sighs. “I don’t know. Should this happen so fast?” Around them, the draped mosquito netting that curtains their ridiculously large bed flitters in the breeze. He turns and nuzzles her hair. “Something weird happened today. Dimitri kneeled for me and I felt...sad? Like. I realized he was going to leave and it made me all depressed.”

“Yes,” Hilda says, reaching up and tugging at his hair. “That’s what it feels like when you love someone and they don’t live near you. It happened to me with Marianne, before we left Garreg Mach. You love Dimitri. You love them both.”

“I -- is that -- fuck.” Claude gives her a look. “Stop acting like you knew it all along.”

“I _did_ , though. Claude, you’re so funny. You never turn down an opportunity and you think six steps ahead of everything and you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met, but you’re so _dumb_ sometimes.”

“I’m so lucky to have a queen who’s so _nice_ to me.”

“You are lucky, because I tell you the _truth_. And the truth is, you have two submissives who want to show you their throats when you just _look_ at them the right way. You have a king of an entire continent who wants to kneel for you. You have his consort begging for your cock--”

“Technically, he begged me to take _his_ ,” Claude points out.

“Maybe this time, but come _on_.” Hilda rubs her face against him. “I’m happy for you. I am. The world sucked for five years. It was all terror and death and whatever, so, you know, we earned it. Being happy. Being in love.”

She makes it sound so simple. “I want them to stay.”

“I know. They can’t, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make it work, yeah? I really liked Marianne snuggling with Dimitri. Goddess, it was so cute.” She wriggles about as the cool wind blows in, making her shiver as the aloe salve eases her sunburn. “It’s also hot that you have a king and a duke as your collared submissives.”

“They’re not wearing my collar,” he points out.

“But you want them to wear it. Ask them. Just because you don’t know how this might play out doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying. I know you like to give yourself six or seven exits, but this isn’t going to work that way and it’s _okay_. Trust that they want you, because I’d bet my entire summer wardrobe they love you, too. And you know I don’t say that lightly.” Hilda pauses. “And I would really like to play with them some more, especially Felix. I got off like, three times thinking about holding his head under the water while you rode him, so, do it for me?”

“I’d do anything for you,” Claude says, tipping her face up. He smiles. “Thanks, sweetheart. You really are like a star in my sky, you know that?”

“I do, and I love you, too. Now tell me that story about the wyrms and those sea serpents and that pirate, you know that one I like?” She yawns.

Claude has _no idea_ what she’s talking about, but he’s good at thinking on the fly...so he gathers her close, kisses her head, and makes up a truly ridiculous story until she falls asleep, drooling on his shoulder.

***  
It’s the wind that wakes Felix.

It whistles over the bed, stirring the thin curtains, rattling glass, swinging a crystal charm in the ceiling that clinks and chimes. Felix rolls over and flings an arm onto an empty dip in the mattress where Dimitri should be, and slowly drags himself awake. He isn’t one for sleeping half the afternoon away, but being subjected to a confluence of gleeful dominants can take something out of anyone. He pushes back his unruly hair and climbs out of bed.

Wind rattles glass again, and Felix staggers to a door leading out to a small private balcony, where a large shadow hunches against the sky. He hauls the door open, but Dimitri doesn’t look up, just shifts the papers on his knee and blots out a line with a dull pencil. He’s wearing only a shirt and soft cotton pants he probably pulled from Claude’s chest of clothes, and he has a furrow to his brow that only tends to come out after sunset, when he thinks Felix doesn’t notice him stalking off to his study to go over reports.

“You could at least light a candle,” Felix says. Dimitri grunts.

“Blew out. Moonlight’s fine.”

He turns a page over and writes something on the back, in his neat, tidy script. “Thought Dedue was supposed to do this while you were gone,” Felix says.

Another grunt. “It’s the public education law Ashe and I drafted. Council’s up in arms about funding, wants me to leave it up to the lords to pay for education on their own land.” He bares his teeth in a grim mockery of a smile. “I’m correcting them.”

“Right now? In the dark?”

“As good a time as any. We were somewhat occupied this afternoon.”

Felix rolls his eyes. That’s one way to put it. He sits down next to Dimitri and props his feet up on the balcony railing. Before them, the city drowns in moonlight, and the wind that ruffles Dimitri’s papers and slides over Felix’s skin is almost cool. “Speaking of. You and Marianne.”

“Ah, yes, she’s a dear,” Dimitri says. He stews in Felix’s pointed silence for a minute, then sets down his papers. “And?”

“Seems like a jump, that’s all,” Felix says. “Us… sharing, like that.”

“Does it bother you?” Dimitri asks, brows raised. “It was purely platonic, you know; hardly like the time you offered to help Sylvain in Garreg Mach and he had that, that—“

“Bisexual crisis,” Felix drawls. “Yes, I remember. I’m not being possessive. I know I have you, and Marianne’s… nice. I always liked her alright.”

“You old softie.”

“Don’t,” Felix says, and Dimitri smiles down at his notes. “Just seems like… Like we crossed over something.”

Dimitri smiles, shifting in his seat. “Why, Felix,” he says. “Are you trying to talk about our _feelings_? My Felix? Felix Hugo Fraldarius?”

Felix squints. “I’ll leave you to your law.”

“No, no, I tease.” Dimitri’s smile just broadens. “And yes, I noticed. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. Do you remember when we first, ah, fell for each other?”

“Yeah, probably,” Felix says. “We were twelve.”

Dimitri, gangly and skinny and awkward as hell, reading aloud from one of the books on military strategy while he and Felix lay under a flowering oleander tree. He didn’t flinch when Felix took his hand, tentative and light, and Felix had looked over at him then, exploring his face, mapping out the future in the bright, dazzling smile he made when he saw Felix looking.

“The second time, then,” Dimitri says.

“We were fourteen.” The first night Dimitri woke up screaming. Glenn’s name echoing through the manor, Felix’s father’s footsteps pounding down the hall, Felix standing in the doorway as Dimitri shook and sweated and retched, staring through the walls and into a killing ground that never truly left him. Wood splintering into Felix’s nails.

_I’m sorry, Felix. I couldn’t save him. I’m sorry._

Dimitri looks at Felix now, here in the moonlight, and speaks in a soft, measured voice.

“How many times?” he asks.

“Don’t know,” Felix says. “It took a while. Tried hating you a bit.”

“Did you?” Dimitri’s brow quirks. “I didn’t notice.” He sighs heavily. “Maybe it’s just that love comes easier to us, now. We tempered it on each other, so we recognize it when it comes.”

Felix removes his feet from the railing and sits up. “You feel for Claude, then.”

“Don’t you?” Dimitri fixes him with that sharp, clear gaze, and Felix goes still. Dimitri lets him think about it, the way he always does, but Felix doesn’t really need the time.

“Wouldn’t submit to someone like this unless I trust them,” he says, carefully. Which is odd, because no one _ever_ trusted Claude in Garreg Mach, not completely. But he’s a good king, a good man, even if he _is_ more insufferable than Dimitri at his worst. “I can count on one hand the number of people who would prefer I be myself. I’m not proud enough to pretend otherwise.”

“It seems Claude only just figured it out today,” Dimitri says. Felix narrows his eyes. “He dropped, after the fight. I may have unnerved him, and he… isn’t used to letting too many people close.”

“The man installed us in _these_ rooms, practically moons after you every time you so much as breathe, and finds _me delightful_ , and you’re saying he only _just_ realized this isn’t a casual fling?” Felix groans and pushes himself to his feet. “I’ve been cursed. Two kings, and they’re both fools.”

“Unlucky you.”

Felix yanks the notes out of Dimitri’s hands. “We’re going to bed. This can wait.”

“But if I can have it mailed tomorrow—“

“No. You’ll have to order them to accept it anyways, so it won’t kill them to wait.”

Dimitri laughs softly and hauls himself to his feet. “I suppose I can wake early—“

“No.” Felix marches into the room and shoves the notes in the clothes chest, on top of the dancer’s outfit he _certainly_ hasn’t been thinking about, and slams the lid closed. Dimitri looks far too pleased with himself regardless, so Felix turns on his heel and walks through the open doorway to Claude and Hilda’s suites.

“Ah, Felix,” Dimitri calls, from behind him.

Claude is still awake, lying in his massive bed with Hilda at his side. Marianne is asleep with her face in Hilda’s hair, and Claude is reading a book by the light of a covered lantern, which casts soft light over his features. He looks up at Felix, and Felix thinks of Dimitri under the oleander, holding his hand.

“Felix?” Claude says, in a soft voice. Hilda stirs a little at his side, flopping an arm over his stomach.

“Dimitri will stay up half the night revising a _law_ if he isn’t stopped,” Felix says, which isn’t what he means, exactly, but Claude just smiles and twitches aside the sheets. Felix scowls at Dimitri, who raises his hands in mock defeat before sliding into bed first, settling on Claude’s other side. Hilda mutters in her sleep, and Felix climbs in after him, blocking him from a subtle escape.

“You see the hardship I must endure,” Dimitri whispers. Felix shoves at his shoulder, and Claude closes his book and lays it on a shelf set into the wall behind him.

“I’ve heard of this thing called sleep,” Claude whispers back. “Sounds like a myth.”

“You’re both as bad as each other,” Felix says, but Claude just smiles at him, soft and unguarded, with his hair tousled and his hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. Felix rolls to the side, and Claude touches his cheek, trails his fingers up to his long, tangled hair. Felix has seen his look in Dimitri’s face, before. He knows what it means.

He closes his eyes and thinks of oleander, pale pink blossoms blooming in the shade, and a lifetime stretched before him, still bright, still possible, anchored by the weight of a hand in his.


	4. duly noted

When Claude wakes before dawn, just as the wyverns in the grounds below start to chirp and whistle in response to the chickens that run wild through the city, he learns that as much as he knows about Felix Fraldarius, he would have never believed that the duke of Faerghus is a _cuddler._

“It’s always like this,” Dimitri whispers, as Felix, still dead to the world, wraps his arms around one of Dimitri’s. He’s like a sloth, tangled up in Dimitri with his hair wild on his shoulders and his mouth slightly open, and when Dimitri tries to move, Felix groans faintly and drags him closer. “As you can see.”

“I don’t know how you get out of bed in the morning,” Claude whispers, and kisses Dimitri just because he can, turning his face with his fingers. Dimitri’s lips curve under his.

“It’s a trial.”

Claude kisses Dimitri again, savoring the way he eases into his touch, still languid from sleep and pinned down by Felix’s efforts at his side. Dimitri’s moan is muffled and low, and Felix blinks his eyes open halfway and drags himself a few inches up Dimitri’s body.

“Fucking hot,” he mumbles.

“Yes,” Claude says. “It’s called weather.”

Dimitri goes a curious shade of pink, and Felix looks up at Claude, his amber eyes gone hazy and dark. “Fucking hot idiots,” he says, and climbs over Dimitri. “Tell him to fuck my throat, ‘Mitri. Wrap it up in diplomacy.”

Claude raises his brows, and Dimitri shrugs. “There’s this, too.”

“Shut the fuck up, it’s not my fault you’re like this,” Felix says, into Dimitri’s neck. Claude clicks his tongue and pulls Felix’s head back by the hair, and Felix looks up at him, expectant, yearning.

“ _So_ close,” Claude says, and drops him. Felix looks almost _betrayed._ “Ask me properly, and maybe I’ll fuck that pretty face of yours.”

Felix looks momentarily poleaxed by the thought, which does wonders for a man’s self-confidence this early in the morning. But when he’s still struggling with the words a moment later, Claude just sighs and runs a hand down his cheek.

“Please,” Felix says.

“Better, but not what I was looking for,” Claude says. He grabs Felix’s hands and holds them over his head, and Felix draws a breath, clenches and flexes his fingers.

“Please,” Felix says, again. “Let me suck your cock.”

“I _love_ morning Felix,” Claude says, pushing Felix off Dimitri and onto his back. 

“I could do with less of morning Claude,” Hilda says, from where she’s lying facedown in the pillows. Marianne looks up from under her arm and swipes a lock of hair from her eyes.

“You’d pine without me,” Claude says. He lets go to drag at Felix’s hair with both hands, and Felix closes his eyes like a contented cat, altogether too pleased with himself.

He’s still inordinately pleased a few minutes later, even when he’s choking on Claude’s cock and breathing hard through his nose, writhing on the bed beneath him. He gasps hoarsely when Claude draws back, and bares his neck, which Claude only just realizes is uncollared. He finishes on Felix’s face, and runs his hands down to where his collar usually fits. Felix’s eyes are closed, lips parted as he gasps for breath, and Claude trails a line along his neck.

“That was hot,” Hilda says, from where she’s still definitely buried in the down of her pillow, unable to see anything, “but we _do_ still have the talks this morning.”

“Yes,” Claude says, catching his breath. “We do. Dimitri, fetch me a warm cloth, will you? And bring me Felix’s collar. And yours, because I’m almost positive you brought with you.” Claude draws his fingers over the bare space on Felix’s neck, staring hard at it while Dimitri goes to do as he asked. There’s a restless sort of annoyance pricking at him, and it takes only a few seconds to realize what it is. He grabs Felix by the hair and pulls. “Felix. Look at me.” 

Felix, drowsy and under, blinks his pretty eyes up at Claude. 

“Don’t you _ever_ go uncollared around me. Never again.” He hooks his fingers in Felix’s mouth, but that’s not enough to calm the flare of possessiveness so he drags them out and slides his hand around Felix’s neck instead. Felix makes a sound like a gasp and writhes a bit. His mouth is parted, face still a mess of sweat, tears and Claude’s come. It almost settles him, until he glances down at that space where a collar should be and _is not._ “Especially not if you’re sleeping in my bed and begging for my cock.” 

Felix huffs, of course, but he’s under enough that he doesn’t make Claude drag it out of him; he just shifts his gaze down and mutters, with only a touch of his usual petulance, “I wanted you to put it on me.” 

That does settle him a bit, but not enough. Not enough. Claude closes his hand over Felix’s neck and says, “Then you bring it to me in your teeth, you crawl, you kneel at my feet and you _ask me_ to put it on you. Understand?” 

“Claude, how can he ask you if it’s in his mouth?” Hilda asks, watching him with a shrewd look. “When Mari has to take hers off, she crawls over with it in her mouth, kneels, lets me pet her and tell her what a good girl she is, and then presents it _nicely_ and asks me for it. Also nicely. I bet you could get like, at least part of that right, Felix.” 

Claude is completely taken aback by his reaction to a collarless Felix, but he _is_ at least glad to have a plan. “Good. Yes. Do that.” 

He climbs off Felix when Dimitri returns, holding both Felix’s collar and his own, his eyes wide. Dimitri looks unfairly gorgeous in the morning, all tousled hair and warm skin golden in the early morning sun. Felix is just as lovely, disheveled with his tangled dark hair that should really have been braided before bed -- another rule he’ll make sure Felix follows. 

It isn’t until he cleans Felix’s face with the warm cloth that he realizes Dimitri is still standing there holding both collars, and that it isn’t really _his_ collar Felix is wearing, but Dimitri’s. And even _that_ annoys him, because Dimitri is no dominant. He turns to him and says, “I am only asking this once, so make sure you answer me honestly. Do you have a problem with me putting this on Felix?” 

Dimitri shakes his head immediately. “There’s only ever been one person who’s earned the right to collar him, and it isn’t me.” He doesn’t sound bothered in the slightest, and he hands Felix’s collar over without a word. 

That settles Claude even more, so he points to the floor and snaps his fingers. Felix gets off the bed in a scramble, practically falling to his knees. His eyes are overbright, and it makes Claude feel incredibly happy to see the way he puts his hands behind his back and waits. 

“Well?” Claude asks, tipping his face up with his fingers beneath Felix’s chin. “Is that true? Did you take that collar off, did you want me to put it on you because I earned the right to do it?” 

“Yeah,” Felix says, and then, he says, “Yes, your majesty,” and Claude is so surprised he almost falls over. 

“Good,” he says, which is sort of not enough and he knows it, but they really _are_ going to be late if he throws Felix on the bed and fucks him into the mattress for being so beautifully perfect and obedient at the absolute worst time. His mouth quirks. That’s...Felix, isn’t it? “Good,” he says, again, and goes around to put the collar around Felix’s neck. “I did get you something, but...later, for that.” The collar is traditional for Fodlan submissives, and it’s similar a bit to the one Marianne wears. Claude buckles it and feels an intense, shuddering wave of pure _satisfaction_ as the buckle slides home. 

Felix is breathing hard, his shoulders shaking. Claude gathers his tangled hair and decides to have Marianne brush it and braid it for him while he does this for Dimitri, who’s watching them with a mix of unabashed hunger and deep affection. 

Claude goes down in front of him and takes Felix’s face in his hands. Felix’s face is wet, and he won’t look at Claude - but his posture is perfect, his hands crossed at the wrist low on his back, and Claude leans in to press a soft kiss to his mouth. “It’s different, isn’t it? When someone’s earned it. Dima loves you so much, and he tried so hard, and I know how you love him for it. But he’s right, isn’t he? _I_ earned it.” 

Felix makes a sound close to a sob and nods, and Claude kisses him again and strokes his hair back, petting him until he can tell it’s too much and Felix needs a moment to gather himself. He’s not like Dimitri, who turns into a lazy cat seeking affection when he’s under. Felix needs the quiet, the stillness, that he never lets himself have. 

“You’re so good for me,” Claude says, softly, in Felix’s ear. “Breathe and be quiet.” 

Felix gives one of those little nods again, and Claude turns to Dimitri -- then he hears a sound from the bed, and looks over to see _Hilda_ scrubbing a hand over her face. 

“Oh, shut up,” she says, in a choked voice. “I -- just shut up, Claude.’ 

“I didn’t even say anything!” he smiles. “Darling, light of my life, star and jewel of my --” 

“Ugh, what?” Hilda interrupts, sliding out of bed, naked and gorgeous and she was totally just crying, and honestly, it’s not even eight in the morning and Claude’s literally already winning at life. 

“Would you ask Marianne to bring tea and a comb? Someone needs to get Felix’s hair in order, and she did say she’d like to braid Dimitri’s.” 

“I _guess_ ,” Hilda grumps at him, but it’s only because it’s early and she hates crying when it’s not to get her away about something. 

He blows her a kiss; she flips him off and goes to find Marianne. 

“You have a type,” Dimitri says, to him. 

“You don’t give me nearly this much trouble,” Claude says, to Dimitri. 

“Just wait,” Felix mutters, ominously, but there’s a slight smile on his face even if his voice is still trembling a bit. 

Claude holds his hand out to Dimitri. “I don’t even need to say it, do I?” 

Dimitri shakes his head and kneels for him, holding his hair back so that Claude can put the collar on his neck. “You have a high-necked shirt to wear today? The fur from your cape covers this, yes? I love that you’ll wear this for me, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I am not ashamed to belong to you,” says Dimitri, and Claude discreetly pinches the inside of his own arm, still unable to believe this is happening. 

“Ah, Dima,” Claude says, and kisses his neck above the collar. “I have something for you, too. After the peace talks, we all need to have our own, I think. For now, this will do.” 

Marianne appears with the comb, and Claude decides to have her work on Dimitri’s hair instead; she has a nimble and gentle touch, and he doesn’t think that Felix will appreciate that at the moment. Instead, he lets Felix get himself under control while Marianne gently combs out Dimitri’s hair and braids it, and both of them look so happy about it, it’s adorable. 

Hilda returns from her bath and steals Marianne away, so Claude sends Dimitri to dress in his six thousand pounds of seasonally inappropriate clothing with all its various and attendant ferocious dead animal fur. Claude takes the comb and pulls it through Felix’s hair, watching him relax as the comb pulls and yanks through the tangles. It’s not gentle, and Claude’s braid is nowhere near as good as Marianne’s, but he feels like they both need this; Claude giving Felix pain to ground him, and Claude putting his hands on him to settle _himself_ down. 

“You do things to me,” Claude breathes, once the braid is as neat as Claude can make it. “I love how much you make me work for it.” He draws his fingers over the top of the collar. “I never want you to stop. Don’t ever make it easy for me.” 

“I won’t,” Felix says, voice gruff. “I wouldn’t know how even if I _wanted_ to.” 

“Which you don’t,” Claude says, distracted, hands running over his chest, his strong swordsman’s arms. 

“Never,” Felix says, and it’s so arousing that Claude pulls him back by the end of the braid and kisses him senseless. 

“Go get dressed before I put you on your back again,” Claude says, just to see that pretty flush on Felix’s shoulders, his neck. When Felix gets to his feet, Claude is delighted to see how hard his cock is, flushed and already wet at the tip. “Mm. I like thinking about how uncomfortable you’re going to be all day like this.” 

Felix keeps touching his collar and his gaze is hazy, but he finally seems to parse all of that and of _course_ he scowls. “You’re a fucking asshole, Claude.” 

Claude smiles. “And you love it.” 

Felix smiles back, just briefly, then turns and heads back to the suite he shares with Dimitri. 

***

The following are a selection of notes passed between those in attendance during the historic peace talks between the Kingdom of Almyra (Blessed Land of Flame and Star) and the Kingdom of Unified Fodlan (Land of the Far-Reaching Skies): 

Passed discreetly beneath the table and pressed into the hand of Queen Hilda, She Who Slays With the Silver Axe: 

_Did Khalid dress in a hurry this morning, Daughter? His sash is a bit askew and I’m certain he did not look once at his hair before he left your chambers._

Passed discretely back beneath the table to former queen, Lady Tiana, Wielder of the Demon Blade: 

_He was super distracted this morning, that’s for sure. You know how dogs try to chase carts in the street sometimes? Well, imagine the cart just stopped in the middle of the road and was like. Here you go. I’m full of bones. And the dog has to deal with that now. Okay, so maybe I can’t do metaphors, but Khalid’s the dog in this one._

Slipped under the fingers of Queen Hilda, She Who Slays With The Silver Axe, accompanied by a mildly concerned look.

_I take it that Duke Fraldarius is the cart in question? He does seem the sort to lead one on a chase. He must get it from his mother; Charming woman, but devilishly coy when she had to be. Did I ever tell you that I was challenged at a ball in defense of her honor? It was quite the scandal in Faerghus high society at the time._

Hastily scrawled and pushed across the table, prompting more than one pointed stare, into the hands of Lady Tiana, Wielder of the Demon Blade.

_WHAT._

Slyly tucked in the hem of Queen Hilda, She Who Slays With the Silver Axe’s rose gold sleeves.

_It isn’t so shocking as it seems. We were all quite young, and my sweet Belle was only **betrothed.** And her fiancé was such an odious bore. Is it any wonder she took me into her confidence? Besides, she was a delightful dancer, and I won the duel. A shame she married him anyways. _

_You don’t think Duke Fraldarius knows how to dance? I can only pray he’s a better swordsman than his father, at least._

Passed into Lady Tiana’s lap with some force, folded three times over.

_Dearest mother, please tell me you dated Felix’s mom. Tell me it’s true. I’ll carry your secret in the boudoir of my heart for the rest of my life._

Passed to Lady Tiana again, on the back of the first note, heavily-blotted.

_YOU DID. Felix will DIE, he LOVES you._

Discreetly handed to Lady Tiana by a servant, written in the careful script of King Khalid the Silver Tongued.

_Lady Mother,  
Please refrain from looking at my submissive as though you would like to take him apart with your bare hands. It is deeply unsettling for all involved.  
With great love and affection,  
Your devoted son_

Kicked under the table and picked up by His Majesty King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.

_YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE, CLAUDE_

Handed to King Khalid the Silver Tongued by a slightly nervous servant.

_My dear, sweet boy,  
I cannot possibly know what you mean. I was also not aware you had taken on an official submissive. As your mother, I must of course speak to them to ensure they are properly welcomed into the family.  
Your loving mother _

Kicked under the table to Queen Hilda, Wielder of the Silver Axe.

_Stop her._

Handed directly to Queen Hilda by Lord Malik, Conqueror of the Starry Skies, prompting King Khalid the Silver Tongued to cover his face with a hand.

_KHALID FUCKED THE PRETTY ONE WELL, YES? HE WILL NOT TELL ME, HIS FATHER. THE PRETTY ONE HAS THE LOOK IN HIM._

Hastily tossed at Queen Hilda by King Khalid while servants pass out refreshments, landing directly in her water glass.

_DO NOT (illegible) SWER MY (illegible)_

Handed to King Khalid, then to a servant, and finally to Queen Hilda, written in remarkably neat cursive.

_Queen Hilda,  
Whatever is happening, I want no part of it.  
Sincerely,  
Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius_

Not so discreetly slipped across the table by King Dimitri to Queen Hilda, then promptly shown to Lady Tiana, written in perfect, print-ready calligraphy.

_Queen Hilda,  
I apologize for whatever Felix may have just written. Additionally, your comment on the logging industry re: the trade agreement was inspired, and I shall take it to heart.  
-D_

Handed directly to King Khalid by Queen Hilda at the closing of the talks, pressed firmly into his palm.

_Baby, you need to get Dimitri something nice, like, yesterday._

And handed in front of all in attendance to King Khalid the Silver-Tongued by Lord Malik, Conquerer of the Starry Skies, written in the script of Almyra: 

_BRATLING,  
YOU WILL HAVE YOUR TREATY.  
LET YOUR MOTHER BORROW THE PRETTY ONE.  
YOUR FATHER _

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Claude says. He’s sprawling on the benches of the indoor practice courts like an unruly teenager while Felix, his body practically thrumming with excitement, stands with perfect posture in the middle of the room. Claude’s mother paces around him like a mountain cat considering how best to pounce, and when she gives an order, Felix shifts into a fighting stance, moving smooth as silk.

“I can,” Dimitri says. “I did warn you about Felix. He lives for this. Some days it’s as though he’s one of those marionette soldiers from the underworld, and he needs to fight someone just to restart his heart again.”

“A soldier from _what?_ ” Claude asks. He’s so unguarded today. It makes him look younger, less shrouded by his own consequence. 

“It’s one of our more popular fairytales,” Dimitri says. In the practice court, Felix holds still as Lady Tiana tries to run him through. She twists the sword out of the way at the last second, and Felix smiles.

“Did you see that?” Lady Tiana asks.

“Yes, ma’am, I believe so.”

“Ma’am?” Claude asks. His voice, coming from a less exalted man, could be called a squeak.

“I told you. Toy soldier.” Dimitri leans back on the bench from his place at Claude’s feet, and Claude idly brushes his fingers over the braid Marianne wove in his hair. “They say the knights of the third king of Faerghus were so dedicated to the sword that they lost all other desires. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. Left their families.”

“No, no,” Lady Tiana says, grabbing Felix’s sword arm and shifting it, then twisting his waist. “Like you’re dancing. Do you know the Waltz of the Hyacinths?”

Felix blushes darkly. “A little.”

“The goddess has, ah, a few different forms in Faerghus,” Dimitri says, as Felix carefully follows Lady Tiana’s instructions. “Her maiden form is the goddess of death. So she came to the knights and offered them a true challenge. To fight back ghosts trying to escape the underworld. But they couldn’t live underground, so their hearts were replaced with steel and their bodies were turned to wood, and if they don’t have a challenge, they hang there at the gates of the underworld, waiting.”

“Of course that’s a Faerghus fairytale,” Claude says. “Here we get like, women falling from the sky to give us mathematics, or snakes that tell the future.”

“I could use one of those,” Dimitri says. Claude’s eyes narrow—his quiet smile, Dimitri is starting to realize—and slips his fingers under Dimitri’s jacket, brushing the heavy collar there. Dimitri shivers pleasantly.

Steel crashes in the silence, and Lady Tiana draws back. “Oh, you _are_ good!”

Felix smiles. “I try.”

“I know that look. Do it again.”

“It’s easy to see he’s a younger son, like this,” Dimitri says. Claude continues to stroke his collar, running his fingers up the fine hairs at Dimitri’s neck every now and then. “He was always following after Sylvain and Glenn when we were young. Glenn was his brother. One of the youngest knights in recent history. He was focused. A little brash. _Very_ brash. Nothing like Felix, who cried every time Sylvain came over with a scrape or a…”

He stops. That isn’t his story to tell.

“Well. After Duscur, we all changed, somehow. I shouldn’t have, but when Felix asked how Glenn died, I told him. Told him everything. He swore off knighthood, threw himself into the sword, into the role of an heir. Didn’t ask anyone for anything.”

Lady Tiana backs Felix up a step with a sword pressed to his throat, and Felix laughs.

“He still doesn’t like it. Asking for things. Depending on people.” He slides his gaze to Claude, who’s watching him carefully. “He doesn’t readily admit to needing someone.”

“Dimitri,” Claude says, as Lady Tiana raps on Felix’s sword, making him laugh again. “Are you _admonishing_ me?”

“No.” Dimitri looks back to Felix, who is quietly bombarding Lady Tiana with questions. “Just trying to explain what it meant to him, back there, to take your collar. Since he’d rather eat nails than say it himself.”

“Yes, he’s a contrary thing, isn’t he?” Claude says, with an indulgent smile.

Felix, thankfully, is returned to Claude in one piece, though he _is_ buzzing with adrenaline, unable to keep still for more than a moment. Hilda, who Dimitri quietly warned ahead of time, chose to dodge having to watch what was in essence a glorified sword lesson, and has left a note with a servant informing them that she’ll be avoiding all social obligations until further notice.

“We should head upstairs,” Claude says, casting an appraising look over Dimitri and Felix. “We have to go over a thing or two.”

Felix nods. “Yes, we do; I did invite your parents to Faerghus this autumn.”

“What? What, no, wait, no.” Claude walks over to place both hands on Felix’s face, and for a moment he looks so like his mother that Dimitri has to cough into his fist to smother a laugh. “That’s not what I’m talking about, but also, _why_.”

“Your mother is a _fiend_ ,” Felix says, as though this is a good thing. “Did you see that disarming strike? You didn’t?” His face falls, slightly. 

“Show me later,” Claude says, and kisses him hard, as though trying to drag his attention back to the present by force of will. He almost succeeds, even if there’s still a restlessness behind Felix’s eyes, and gives them both a fervent look. “This is about something else.”

He tells them.

Felix stands there a moment, blinking slowly, Claude’s hands still pressed to his cheeks. Then his brows lower, and his mouth twists in a hard line, and he glances from Dimitri to Claude with a thoroughly skeptical look.

“I thought we already _were_ ,” he says.

Claude straightens.

“Right?” Felix looks back to Dimitri. “We’ve been yours for a while. What do you think… this morning…”

“Right,” Claude says. There’s the faintest hint of a blush in his cheeks. “Okay. Well. At least we’re all on the same page, now.”

“When did you find the book?” Felix asks, and Claude gives him a heated look that finally, finally stills him.

“We’d better go before I take you both here in the hallway,” Claude says, and when he grabs Felix by the collar and crooks his finger at Dimitri to follow, neither of them bother to resist.

Hilda is out on the balcony when they arrive, her feet on the iron table, a breeze ruffling a long, white sundress with a palm leaf pattern. Far below, a band is playing by the fountains, string guitars and a set of drums, the low sound of voices singing in Almyran. Hilda sways her foot to the beat, and light flashes in her hands—jewelry, fine silver chains that loop and fall from her fingers like delicate lace. Claude stops to kiss her, and he closes the balcony door halfway as Dimitri starts to unclasp his cloak.

“Wait,” Claude says, and Dimitri stops, hands still raised to his chest. “This is part of it. Felix, on your knees. You’ll get your turn.”

Felix glances down at the hard floor, sighs, and gently lowers himself to his knees. “I’ll trip anyone coming through the door,” he says.

“Duly noted.” Claude stops before Dimitri and pushes his hands away. He removes Dimitri’s cloak himself, letting it fall at his feet. “When the talks aren’t in session, and when we don’t have official duties to deal with, I want both of you here. Naked.” He yanks at the straps of Dimitri’s royal armor, and Dimitri holds his breath. “Collared.”

He pulls at Dimitri’s armor as though it personally offends him, and sets it aside. “If I do want you to wear something, I’ll tell you. Dimitri, you’ll have to preserve your dignity as king outside these walls, I get that, but Felix, if I want you to crawl down the halls after me in nothing but a collar, you’ll do it. You hear me?”

“You’ll have to work for it,” Felix says. He meets Claude’s gaze. “Yes.”

“I won’t interfere with matters of state,” Claude says. He drags off Dimitri’s undershirt, and starts tugging at the laces of his trousers. “If you need to work, I won’t pull you away from it. I won’t pressure you. I won’t… make you leave it behind, even if I do want you at the feet of my throne right now.”

Dimitri smiles, and Claude drags him down for a brief, heated kiss. 

“Hilda might want to share,” Claude says.

“She’s a hellion,” Felix says, and Dimitri cuts him a look.

“That means he very well might like her,” he says. “And I don’t mind, of course.”

He doesn’t, really. Hilda is an attentive person, for all that she snaps orders at him like, well, a queen on the throne. And anyone who treats Marianne so lovingly has earned a place in his estimation.

“Aw, baby,” a voice calls from the balcony, and Dimitri isn’t sure who she’s speaking to.

Claude steps back, and he looks a little like Felix after a bout, his eyes bright and his smile infectious. “Alright,” he says. “You know your places here. Which means you’re still far too overdressed. Fix that, then come back to me, and I’ll give you both what you need.”


	5. tactics

Dimitri and Felix both go to the suite --  _ their  _ suite, Claude thinks with satisfaction -- to comply with Claude’s orders. Claude stands there waiting for them to return, hands behind his head, a smile on his face that isn’t going to leave anytime soon. 

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” says Hilda. “Or the wyvern that ate the...mouse? They eat mice, right?” 

“Among other things. You rode a wyvern in war for like five years, and you don’t know what they eat?” Claude clicks his tongue at her. “Hilda, really.” 

“I left my sweet Daisy in the care of those best suited to the task,” Hilda says. She grins up at him. “Speaking of taking care of wild creatures, you going to give your boys those fancy collars?” 

“Yup,” says Claude. He walks over to the chest in the corner of the room, opens the wooden double-doors etched with the sun flanked by a spray of arrows, and rummages around the mess -- he’s still never really learned to be tidy -- until he finds the box with the two collars inside. 

One is less obvious; the one for Felix, who already has a collar that everyone in the kingdom recognizes as the one Dimitri put on him. Claude meant what he said -- he isn’t going to interfere with Dimitri’s position as King of Fodlan, but he also wants Felix to have something to wear that says he’s  _ his _ . 

So for Felix, Claude has a simple silver chain that can be attached through the loop on Felix’s collar. At the end is a simple stylized charm in the shape of a crescent moon; to represent both traditional iconography of Almyra and the Riegan crest. 

For Dimitri, he has a white leather collar with stars stitched with gold thread, in much the same manner as they embroider riding boots and ceremonial quivers for arrows. Hilda, who makes a lot of accessories, showed him how to use the tool to hammer the same crescent moon into the backside of the leather. The stars are similar enough to the Blaiddyd crest, so no one will think he’s wearing a foreign king’s sigil. And the crescent moon is on the inside, of course -- Claude likes to think about it pressed against Dimitri’s neck, against the beat of his pulse. 

“Remember when you thought you’d just have those around so they could wear them while they were here?” Hilda teases, sliding behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re silly.” She rubs her face against his back. “Do you want me to go find Marianne?” 

He turns his head to look at her. “Only if you want to. Thought you might want to play with my boys, too.” Calling them that gives Claude a little thrill, he can’t lie. 

“Love to, just don’t make me  _ do  _ anything, baby. They’re, like, way too much work.” She tugs on his jacket. “Speaking of being overdressed…” 

“You gonna help me out with that?” He turns in the circle of her arms and smiles down at her. 

“Nope,” says Hilda. “You have  _ two  _ submissives to do that, and one will even  _ like  _ it. I’m gonna watch, though.” 

He leans down and kisses her. “Speaking of things you like, I have some plans.” 

“So far your plans have been pretty fun, so, I’m in,” she says, and kisses him back. 

He turns and sees Dimitri and Felix walking back in the room, both of them naked as he asked. Smiling, Claude gives Hilda one last kiss and says, “Go get comfortable, we’re going to have a show.” 

“Oh! My favorite!” Hilda scampers over to one of the large floor pillows and arrays herself on it, looking expectant. “Entertain me.” 

Claude grins at her and turns to Dimitri and Felix. His eyebrows go up. “I was wondering what took you two so long, but I think I get it.” Felix’s hair is messy, his eyes blurry and his cock hard between his legs. Dimitri, who’s also naked -- and gods, there just so  _ much  _ of him -- has messy hair and a wet mouth, and his cock is in a similar state. 

“I don’t remember hearing either of you ask me if you were allowed to touch each other,” Claude says, walking closer. He looks at Felix. 

“Not me,” Felix says, arms crossed. He arches one dark brow. Claude’s only ever seen one other person who can do that, and it’s Hilda. “I told you that he was trouble.” 

“I--he is right,” Dimitri says, looking abashed. “I’m terribly sorry, Claude, it’s just that you -- well, you see, I was a bit. Ah. Worked up. And you were stripping me, and Felix was  _ right there _ \--” 

“And you’re a king, and you think you can take what you want,” Claude says, stepping in close. “But you’re not a king here, Dima.” He traces a hand down Dimitri’s firm chest, over a scar in his shoulder that makes Dimitri tense -- Claude glances at it, wondering if it’s still painful even though it doesn’t look any different than the other myriad scars that cut across Dimitri’s impressive body. Ah, well. He’ll ask later. This isn’t the time to get caught up in the past. 

He pats Dimitri on the side of the face, then curls his fingers under the collar he’s eager to replace. “What are you, when you’re here? Tell me.” 

Dimitri’s cheeks are flushed. He blinks. “I -- yours, Claude.” 

“Mmhmm,” Claude says. He pulls sharply at the collar. “Now, kneel and hold your hair up. And apologize for putting your hands all over Felix without asking me.” 

Dimitri falls to his knees with such pretty eagerness, Claude’s breath catches. Dimitri holds his hair up, and if all of this isn’t enough to drive Claude crazy, he says, “I’m very sorry I touched Felix without asking you first, Claude.” 

“You don’t sound very sorry.” He walks around Dimitri’s naked, kneeling form, running his hands over Dimitri’s broad shoulders as he does. He reaches down and takes off the collar, turning to put it aside. “But don’t worry. I know just how to train you out of it. You like the thought of me doing that, don’t you?” 

“I -- yes,” Dimitri says. His arms are still holding up his hair, and they’re not even shaking from exertion. “I do.” 

“Good. Do you want to see the collar I made for you?” 

“Oh, yes,” Dimitri says, swaying forward in eagerness. “Please.” 

“I don’t know,” Claude says, smiling because Dimitri can’t see him. “If you wanted to see it, maybe you wouldn’t have made me wait so long while you put your hands all over my other submissive without even asking first.” As if Felix isn’t his consort. 

_ Not right now, he’s not. Right now, they’re both  _ mine. 

“I told you to stop,” Felix huffs at Dimitri. He’s staring at the collar in Claude’s hands. 

“Here.” Claude reaches around to show it to him. “White for my wyvern. Gold threads and stars for Almyra. The crescent moon for - well. Me. Do you like it?” 

Dimitri’s breath shudders. “Yes, I -- yes.” 

"Do you want me to put it on you? Will you wear it for me, submit to me, be mine and obey me while you’re wearing it, here, for me?” They don’t have any formal collaring oaths in Almyra so Claude is essentially winging it, but this feels right. It feels good.

It feels even better when Dimitri says, “Yes,” and that big, powerful warrior’s body trembles as Claude puts his collar around Dimitri’s neck. Buckling it is so satisfying, as much as it was earlier with Felix -- maybe more so, because Claude designed this one for Dimitri especially. 

Once it’s around Dimitri’s neck, Claude walks around just to see it there. He stands in front of Dimitri and tries not to laugh when he sees that Dimitri still has his hands over his head. “You’re so good for me, hmm? You can put your hands down.” Dimitri does, settling them on his thighs and smiling up at Claude. 

Claude smiles, runs his fingers through Dimitri’s hair -- he’s never seen anyone pull off unkempt as well as Dimitri -- and pauses with his fingers on the tie of Dimitri’s eyepatch. “I would like to take this off, but only if it doesn’t bother you. I’m fine if you’d rather keep it on.” 

Dimitri glances only briefly toward where Hilda is reclining on a pillow. “I don’t mind.” 

Claude takes Dimitri by the chin and forces his gaze to his own. “Don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear, Dima.” 

“It is not entirely comfortable, Claude, but I would  _ like  _ it to be.” Dimitri gives him a careful smile. 

“He wants the choice taken away,” Felix pipes up. “If he meant no, he’d say it.” 

“Hmph,” Dimitri says, but he doesn’t argue, so Claude takes off his eyepatch and gently sets it aside with the other collar. Dimitri’s hair covers the scars, and Claude sort of wants to lean in and kiss them, but he doesn’t. Yet. 

“Go lay on that pillow, the one by Hilda. Lay on your back, she’s gonna want to stare at that body of yours.” 

“True,” says Hilda. “And for the record, I definitely think scars are hot.” 

Dimitri blushes, because of course he does, and before he can get to his feet and walk, Claude presses on his shoulder and says, “I think you know how I want you to get over there.” Then he stares in unabashed enjoyment as Dimitri crawls, muscles shifting like a lion and gods, is it a  _ sight _ . It’s no less sexy when Dimitri sprawls on the pillow across from Hilda, tousled hair and half-hard, skin golden and scarred and beautiful,  _ with Claude’s white leather collar  _ fastened around his neck. 

Then he turns to Felix, and notices with a little smile that Felix is also staring at Dimitri -- not with the same open, lustful approval as Claude -- or _Hilda,_ for that matter -- but he’s definitely just as into it. And he only looks a little angry about it, too. Even better. 

Claude takes the thin chain and goes up to him. Felix gives him the same challenging look he always does, so Claude grabs him by the loop on his collar and yanks him to the floor. Felix growls but he goes down, and he looks pretty pleased about it once he’s there. “Are you ever going to just do what I tell you?” 

“Wait and see,” says Felix. 

Claude drags his fingers through Felix’s messy hair and pulls, hard. “Want to see what I got for you?” 

He sort of expects Felix to argue, because  _ Felix,  _ but Felix says, “Yeah, I do,” without any further manhandling and that would be a disappointment, maybe, if Claude didn’t have  _ plans _ . He keeps one hand in Felix’s hair and dangles the chain in the other. “It’s supposed to loop through your collar, and the charm’s a crescent moon. That way, you can keep Dimitri’s collar on and yet you’ll remember when I put it on you because you’ll have this on there, too.” 

Felix stares up at him with those bright amber eyes and doesn’t say anything, but Claude knows his tells by now. “You want to ask me for this, too?” he asks, softly, remembering what Dimitri told him earlier. 

Felix doesn’t nod -- he can’t, really, with the way Claude is gripping his hair so tight -- but he  _ does  _ flicker his eyes up to Claude’s, all that lovely challenge that’s so much a part of him written so clearly in his expression. 

“I am going to make you both so happy you took my collar,” Claude promises, then tightens his hand in Felix’s hair and smacks him across the face. Felix inhales sharply, but instead of smacking him harder or pulling his hair, Claude goes down on his knees in front of him and takes Felix’s face in his hands. He leans in, pitches his voice soft and says, “And you took it because I earned it, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” It’s soft, a warm spill of breath against Claude’s mouth. Dazed is a good look on Felix. 

“I’m glad. You know that means you can ask me when you need something, right?” Claude leans in and presses a kiss, too gentle, to his mouth. “I know you hate that, but you can.” 

Felix’s eyes narrow just a little. “Dimitri telling you stories, was he?” 

“Looking out for you. He loves you.”  _ I love you.  _ He does. He loves Dimitri, too. And Claude will tell them both, but for the moment he keeps the knowledge close, holds it to his heart and lets it settle. “But I’d sort of figured that out myself. I’m not called the Master Tactician for nothing.” 

“It’s hard for me,” says Felix, the understatement of  _ the actual millennia.  _ “And I hate it.” 

“I know. But you sound so sweet when you do it, and I think you want to be sweet for me, don’t you, Felix?” Claude kisses him, thrumming with the anticipation of what he knows is going to happen. 

Felix bites him. “I don’t.” 

“You do,” Claude says, and bites him back -- hard, holding it and half-bending Felix back like it’s some sweeping dramatic gesture of a kiss….and it kind of is. He has Felix gasping into his mouth by the end of it, and when he pulls back he smiles. “Just so we’re clear. I will always be able to handle you. I don’t care how prickly or angry you are, it’s not going to change that.” 

Felix goes a little tense -- shockingly -- but he nods, and then he surprises Claude by leaning in and kissing  _ him _ , without biting this time. “You talk so much. It’s going to drive me  _ crazy. _ ” 

“Probably,” says Claude. He holds up the chain. “You want this?” 

Felix nods. It’s enough, especially after this morning. So Claude loops the chain through the loop on the collar and then through the small ring on the collar itself -- it’s a jewelry design that Hilda came up with, and she uses it to attach clever little charms for Marianne’s collar -- so that he can clip it. The end of the charm, the crescent moon, hangs just above a scar on Felix’s chest. Close to his heart. 

Claude rubs his thumb over it, watches the way Felix shivers. “Go ahead and join Dimitri,” he says, but kisses Felix first. “You’re  _ also  _ so good for me. You fight me so perfect. Just like I like it.” 

“And I still think you talk too much,” Felix says, then gets on his knees and crawls to join Dimitri on the pillow. 

Claude takes time and strips off most of his formalwear, though he keeps on his boots, his pants and his sleeveless undershirt. Claude’s hair is a bit of a mess, so he ties it back with a scarf and then collapses on the pillow with Hilda. 

He shifts behind her and draws her so she’s sitting between his spread legs, then kisses her on her neck. “Think you’d mind being a little less dressed here, sweetheart?” 

“Mmm, no at all. But if you want this dress off, baby, you take it off.” She turns and grins up at him, playfully, and Claude smiles back and tugs her pretty, loose sundress up. He does it slowly, and laughs in delight when he sees that she’s not wearing a thing underneath. “I sort of already figured you had plans, Claude.” 

When she’s naked, he tips her chin up and kisses her, hands lazily exploring her; at some point she laughs and says, “Now you’re just making them wait, huh.” 

“Excuse me, Your Majesty, you know I love putting my hands all over you,” Claude informs her, but he glances over at Dimitri and Felix and starts laughing. They’re sort of staring, and Dimitri’s clearly having a hard time staying still; he keeps shifting on the pillow, glancing between Claude and Hilda and Felix. “Someone’s getting antsy over there.” 

Dimitri flushes. “I -- perhaps.” 

“You’ve got him all riled up,” Felix says. “He keeps trying to touch me.” 

“Felix!” 

“What? You  _ do _ . You want me to lie?” 

“No, no, I would  _ never _ ,” Dimitri says, in his earnest voice. Then, “Although I wasn’t specifically told  _ not  _ to touch you.” 

“Dimitri,” Claude say. “I’m shocked at you.” 

“I told you he’d be his own brand of trouble,” says Felix, sounding smug. He looks smug, too, leaning back on the pillow and smirking over at Dimitri. 

“Dimitri, don’t touch Felix unless I tell you that you can,” Claude says, sweeping Hilda’s ridiculous amount of unbound pink hair to the side to nuzzle at her neck. “Felix, since you’re being good, you can have a reward. Hilda, what should Felix do to Dimitri?” 

“Mmm. Climb on him and kiss him,” Hilda says, wriggling against him. “Like, make it showy? Claude, just make them be hot. You’re the one that likes, y’know. Strategies or whatever.” 

“It’s so nice to know you appreciate the skills I bring into this marriage,” Claude tells her. 

“Believe me, baby, I appreciate everything you bring into this marriage,” Hilda giggles. 

“Dimitri, lay on your back, hands...cross them above your head, at the wrists. Don’t touch. Felix, climb up there and kiss him.” Claude watches as Dimitri crosses his arms above his head as instructed, and Felix climbs on top of him, leans down and does as instructed. Dimitri doesn’t move his hands, but he surges up and kisses Felix back, legs shifting restlessly beneath him. They look so good together, the familiarity that comes with being lovers for long enough to know exactly how to touch each other -- even if Felix is the only one who’s allowed to use his hands. 

“This  _ is  _ nice,” Hilda agrees, sighing as she watches. She looks up at Claude. “You gonna be the only one who’s overdressed, here?” 

“For a bit,” says Claude, because he can’t quite help liking the way everyone else is naked while he’s dressed. He’s probably buzzing on dom energy, but could anyone blame him? “Shh, sweetheart, watch the pretty boys performing for our pleasure.” 

“Claude, don’t even try that with me.” But she settles back against him, and he nuzzles and kisses her neck, stroking over her breasts, her stomach, the inside of her thighs. 

“You want to touch him, Dimitri?” Claude asks, smiling, chin on Hilda’s shoulder. 

“Yes, always,” Dimitri says, staring up at Felix, and Claude can’t quite see the expression on his face but he sees the way Felix scoffs and he can imagine. 

“How badly do you want to touch him?” 

“So badly, Claude,” Dimitri says, voice rough. 

Claude smiles. “Don’t touch his cock, but you can touch him everywhere else. And call me Khalid. I’d like to hear my submissive call me by my proper name.” 

Hilda turns to give him a  _ look  _ \-- Claude really  _ is  _ part of his name, his mother gave it to him so it’s not like it’s entirely made up -- but she’s then distracted at Dimitri arching off the pillow, nearly sending Felix flying off his lap as his big hands stroke over Felix’s sides and his chest. 

“Thank you, Khalid,” Dimitri says, breathless. 

“You’re welcome, Dima. Is he hard, Felix?” 

“Yeah,” Felix says, from his perch atop Dimitri’s lap. 

“You’ve been very good for me today,” Claude continues, a hand between Hilda’s thighs, fingers teasing at the dampness there. “So sweet. I’m going to give you a reward. I’m going to let Dimitri use that cock of his to fuck you just like you like it -- hard and deep. That’s how you like it, right?” 

“I -- yeah, I like that,” Felix says, glancing over at him. His dark hair is in his face, an inky cloud falling gently around his sharp features. 

Dimitri moans, and Claude sees his fingers tighten on Felix’s hips. “Dimitri,” he says, chiding. “Keep your hips still. You’re going to fuck him on your knees, and you’re going to keep your hands behind your back and not touch him. Make Felix come with your cock and nothing else, and I might let you touch him again. I have to make sure you learn your lesson, yeah?” 

“Well, I -- yes, Khalid,” Dimitri says, panting like he’s just run from Fhirdiad to Almyra. “I suppose you do.” 

“And of course, I would like to spoil my perfect, gorgeous, beautiful queen...Felix, you’re going to get her off for me.” Claude gives Hilda that  _ is that okay  _ look, and her little pleased smirk is all the answer he needs. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you just how she likes it. Crawl over here, and Dimitri, while I give Felix lessons on how to pleasure my queen, you go fetch the oil so you can fuck Felix while he does it.” 

***

Felix hasn’t always been the best at first tries. The first time he tried to pick up a sword, he dropped it in the dirt. The first time he kissed Dimitri, thirteen years old in the Fraldarius schoolroom, he’d accidentally wedged his maths book into Dimitri’s stomach. The first time he tried to suck Dimitri’s cock, it was dark and they’d just come back from a skirmish and Felix didn’t know what to do with his tongue, so he had to stroke Dimitri off instead, silently daring him to say a word. It wasn’t his shining moment.

Now, Felix kneels before Queen Hilda with the air of a man on the shores of an undiscovered country, and gives Claude a dubious look.

“You’ll be fine,” Claude says, and it’s only because he doesn’t say it with any trace of pity that Felix doesn’t get up now and walk back to Faerghus on foot. Claude slides a hand between Hilda’s legs, and she leans her head on his shoulder to watch Felix. “Pay attention. This is the  _ least _ sensitive part, right here—“ He spreads his fingers, stroking lightly along her inner walls, and Hilda narrows her eyes slightly. “You’ll want to use a pattern. Don’t just go at it, that’s not gonna do anything for anyone. I like doing this, because it makes her—“ Hilda shifts her legs and slaps Claude hard on the arm.

“ _ Tease, _ ” she chides, and Claude smiles. Then Claude hooks his fingers a little, exposes her clit, and she kicks out, smacking Felix’s thigh with her heel. 

“Oh, yeah,” Claude says. “She’s a kicker.”

“Fuck you very much, Claude,” she says, but she’s smiling, and Felix meets her gaze with such a look of fellow feeling that he has to glance away. 

He can tell by the heat at his back when Dimitri’s returned with the oil, and Claude seems to consider it for a moment, still idly stroking Hilda, before he looks down at Felix. 

“Prepare him just enough to take you,” he says. “I’ll tell you when to stop. Felix, show my queen your appreciation.”

_ Like she needs more _ , Felix wants to say, but he kneels down and presses his lips to Hilda’s inner thigh. He can just see them both under his eyelashes when he looks up; Hilda’s long hair tied back, the muscles of her arm flexing as she raises a hand to dig through Claude’s hair, tilting his scarf askew. He trails his lips to the trimmed hair above where Claude is still stroking her, and he jerks forward as warm oil dribbles over the curve of his ass.

“Damn,” Dimitri says. “Oh, I apologize.”

Felix closes his eyes for a second. He can feel Hilda suppressing a laugh, and Claude slides his fingers up to hook them in Felix’s mouth. He tastes her on Claude’s fingers, and moans faintly as Claude presses down on his tongue and Dimitri stretches him open, fast and desperate and maybe a little less careful than he usually would. Which means when Claude wipes his fingers on Felix’s cheek and guides him down by the head, Felix tentatively tries to remember the way Claude’s fingers moved and tries to replicate that with his tongue. Hilda hums pleasantly and slides her hand through Felix’s silky hair, and Felix hears Claude give a sharp order above him, feels the weight of Dimitri’s oiled cock on his ass.

“He’s being so respectful,” Hilda says, and presses Felix closer, nearly blocking off his air. He tries to look up at her, but then Claude makes a gesture out of the corner of his eye, and Dimitri is pushing into him. Felix moans, and Hilda’s fingers clench in his hair. Without his hands to temper him, Dimitri practically falls onto Felix, shoving him forward. Felix pauses a moment, breathing hard against Hilda’s skin, and shifts so he can explore her with his tongue. She pushes him up by the hair, and even though he tries to keep himself still, Dimitri has little control over how deep and hard he goes, and Felix may as well be fucking her with his tongue.

Not, it seems, judging by the way her thighs tense and her foot bumps against his side, that she really minds.

“Harder, Dimitri,” Claude says, and Dimitri makes a sound that could almost be a groan of  _ frustration,  _ a  _ whine,  _ and Felix turns his cheek to curse into Hilda’s thigh as Dimitri slams into him, fast and brutal and  _ perfect _ .

“Felix,” Claude warns. “You aren’t here just to be fucked. Well, you are,” he adds, as he turns Felix by the hair, holding him there so that Felix can hardly breathe, “but you can’t neglect my queen. Make her come, Felix.”

Felix can’t help the sounds Dimitri is fucking out of him, can’t stop his body from jerking forward or his fingers from slipping. He likes this, though, feeling Hilda tense under him when he does something right, hearing her gasp when his tongue flicks her clit. He almost wishes he had more time; He has to keep rising to gasp for breath, and Claude keeps holding him there, so he’s pleasantly lightheaded as Hilda and Claude make out above him, ignoring him save for the occasional tug at his roots. He doesn’t even mind when Hilda’s knees threaten to close around him, once, when Claude orders him to slip a finger inside while he works her with his tongue. His own cock jerks as he’s fucked into her, but he doesn’t touch it, because Claude hasn’t told him to.

He grunts as Dimitri collapses for a second, and a hand slams down on the floor at his side.

_ “Shit, _ ” Dimitri says, so softly, but Claude hears it, because he pulls back from where he’s biting Hilda’s neck to grin like a fox in a henhouse. “I’m sorry, Khalid, I couldn’t—It’s—difficult—“

“Oh, he’s  _ wrecked, _ ” Hilda says, but it comes out strained, on edge. Felix lowers his gaze.

“You didn’t touch him, though,” Claude says. “Keep going. He’s close, you know it. Look at him. He’d be panting if he had the breath for it.” 

“Yes,” Dimitri says, and sweat drips onto Felix’s back, sticks to his thighs. “Thank you, Khalid.”

Felix can feel it when Hilda comes. She wraps her legs around his shoulders, dragging him further down so Dimitri is driving into him at an angle that makes his legs tremble with the effort to stay upright. Her abdomen tenses, her hands clench in his hair, and she rocks up into his mouth as she shudders and gasps. Felix keeps going until she drags him up, and when he rests his cheek in the coarse hair below her belly, she lies back against Claude’s chest and pets Felix almost gently. 

Her feet are still digging into his back, though, and Felix has nothing left to distract him from Dimitri’s gasping breaths, the sweat rolling down his legs, the harsh, heavy thrusts that jerk him forward over Hilda’s belly. The chain of Claude’s collar slides between them, cold on his heated skin, and when Dimitri drives into his prostate, Felix grits his teeth and grinds down a moan. His legs are slipping. His knees slide out from under him, and Dimitri presses his full weight into Felix.

“Fuck,” Felix says, and Hilda just plays with his hair, drawing it back out of his eyes. He looks up at Claude, who’s staring at Dimitri, and tries to catch his gaze, but he won’t look down. Felix’s cock brushes against the ground, and his legs give way completely. Dimitri is practically sobbing behind him, struggling not to come, taking great, heaving breaths as he trembles with the exertion of keeping his hands behind his back, and Felix breaks.

“Khalid,” he says. Claude finally looks down at him. “Your majesty,” he adds, because he likes that, because  _ Felix _ likes that, because Felix has dragged Dimitri to the throne in Fhirdiad more than once and just the thought of Claude taking Felix naked in the sunny throne room almost has him moaning. “Can I come?”

“That was almost polite,” Claude says. “Yes, because you’ve been so good for us. Sweet thing.” He kisses Hilda’s neck, and Dimitri tries, goddess bless him, he  _ tries _ , drawing on his last reserves of strength to fuck Felix into the floor. Felix barely has to grind down before he comes, letting out a cry that would be mortifying if he weren’t already under, if Hilda’s hand in his hair didn’t feel so  _ nice _ , if Claude weren’t telling him how  _ good _ he was, even if Felix wasn’t, not really.

Dimitri stills above him, shaking. 

“Oh, look at you,” Claude says. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

“I…” Dimitri is shaking apart as he slowly, slowly pulls back. He thrusts into Felix again, but he sways, thrown off balance, and falls forward a second time. He tries to keep his hands behind his back, but it’s catch himself or crash into Felix, so he holds himself up with one elbow at Felix’s side. His other hand is still behind his back, but his whole body is shaking with the effort. 

“Do you want to come?” Claude asks. Dimitri is panting over Felix’s neck, now, even as he slowly grinds into him. 

“Yes,” Dimitri says. “I would. Your, your majesty, I would like to. Please.”

“You’ll ask permission next time,” Claude says, drawing out his words almost lazily, “before you touch my submissive?”

“Yes,” Dimitri gasps. 

“Sit back on your knees,” Claude says, and Dimitri nearly does sob at that. He pulls out of Felix carefully, so gently, and pushes himself to his knees. His form is all wrong, his shoulders slumped, knees too close together, and his hair is a disaster over his eyes. Felix rolls over to look at him properly, and doesn’t protest when Hilda runs her fingers over his jaw and up his cheekbone.

“Felix, bring him off,” Claude orders, and Felix sits up between Hilda’s legs. “You’ve been so good, Dimitri, obeying me even though Felix was right there, so pretty and desperate for your cock. You can touch him,” he adds, and Dimitri doesn’t so much kiss Felix as drag him into a loose embrace, breathing in harsh against his neck. Felix takes hold of him, and it doesn’t take long for Dimitri to come between them, digging his nails in Felix’s back. He tips Felix onto his side, and Felix groans, pushing at his arms.

“You’re too hot,” he says. “Your majesty, he’s too hot.”

“It’s a curse,” Claude says, sagely, and Felix groans as he lays there, trapped by a still shaking Dimitri with his hair askew and his face flushed, still unfairly breathless in his lover’s arms.

***

Hilda leans back against Claude, breathing a little hard and pushing her damp bangs off her face. Her hair is still up in a messy ponytail, thanks to Claude, and she’s still pleasantly flushed from having Felix between her legs. He wasn’t as good as, say, Claude or Marianne, but she couldn’t deny the performance had been impressive. 

It had, of course, helped that Claude was kissing her and being hot with all the ordering Dimitri around, but yeah, she has no complaints. 

“Mmm, you’re fun,” she says, turning her head to blink up at him. “Look. You broke them.” 

Claude has that half-pleased little smirk on his face, but she can tell he’s still all worked up from making Felix and Dimitri submit  _ and  _ from having her writhing against him. She can feel his cock, hard against her lower back, and his breathing is a little fast, too quick against her skin. 

“Nah. Tired them out, maybe.” He’s still idly playing with her breasts, chin on her shoulder, looking over at Felix and Dimitri. “All right, you two. That was good, you made me happy, you made my queen happy -- right, Hilda? Felix did a good job?” 

“Sure did,” Hilda says, willing to offer praise when it’s earned. “Did you like making me feel good, Felix?” 

Felix is clearly trying to escape Dimitri, who is attempting to cling to him like a very large, attractive, octopus or something. His hair is a  _ mess _ and he lifts his head, his eyes all blurry, mouth still wet from her in a way she’s  _ really  _ into. “I -- yeah.” 

“You probably have to smack him if you want more out of him than that,” Claude says. “Want to? You can. I share.” 

“Too much work,” Hilda says, and she’s only half-joking. “And besides, I think the King could use some attention.” She presses her backside against his pants, grinding a little against the hard ridge of his cock. 

“You’re right, I have been pretty patient, haven’t I?” His voice, indulgent when he speaks to her, sharpens with his natural dominance again. “Dimitri, Felix. Go cuddle on that pillow. You can touch each other, but keep it sweet. No getting off. Understand?” 

That gets him a nod from a Felix and a  _ yes, Khalid,  _ from Dimitri, and Hilda, who always thinks Claude being dominant is hot even if he has to work a  _ lot  _ harder to get her to do anything -- like, rewards and flattery and kisses and presents -- drops her head back for a moment. “Tell them to watch,” she says, because she knows very well how hot she and Claude are together, and the idea of getting Claude’s pretty new submissives all turned on and unable to do anything about it is super hot. 

“Mmm. Sometime I want to let you go full on  _ Hilda  _ on Felix,” Claude says, eyes glinting, his hips pushing forward and his smug little smile going to a full-on smirk. 

“What,” says Felix. 

"Hilda’s got a little bit of a sadistic streak,” says Claude. “It’s pretty hot, she just doesn’t use it on Marianne. You’d like it, Felix. Lots of hair pulling, smacking, she’d probably ride your face until you couldn’t breathe again.” 

“Mmm,” says Hilda, intrigued. “Put it on the agenda. For now, King Khalid...the one who’s gonna get a ride is  _ you _ .” She turns and pushes him gently back on the pillow, then tugs at his shirt. “Take this off, stop hiding that gorgeous body, we all want to see it.” 

Claude grins from his sprawl on the pillow, half-sitting so Hilda can tug off his sleeveless tank. She tugs at his pants, and manages to get them down around his thighs but that means  _ also  _ taking off his boots, and now that his cock is free, she’s in a bit of a hurry. 

She straddles him, leans down and kisses him, rubbing herself against his cock. “Mmm. They did get you worked up, baby.” 

“You helped, you know. And I’m not the only one. I can feel how wet you are for me.” 

Hilda gives a little shiver -- she loves how much Claude talks in bed, it’s the best part of his being such a chatterbox -- and lets herself rub her wet slit against his cock a few times. “Want me to ride you hard and fast, or hard and slow, baby?” 

“Start out slow,” he says, breathless, staring up at her with that dazed little look that makes her feel like the most powerful woman in the world, which, honestly…. 

Hilda reaches up and takes her hair down, shakes it out and then turns to look at Dimitri and Felix. They are definitely watching; Dimitri is on his back and Felix is on his side next to him, a hand on his chest. Dimitri has one hand around the back of Felix’s neck, and tugs him down for a kiss. 

She wonders if Dimitri can taste her on Felix’s mouth and mmm, that’s a nice thought, isn’t it? The King of Faerghus tasting the Queen of Almyra on his consort’s mouth? She grins down at Claude as she takes his cock in hand and presses it against herself, teasing him just a little more before she slides down and takes him to the hilt. She loves how hard he is, how he feels inside her, and she especially loves the way he gasps and grabs her hips, a little too tight because he wants her so much he can’t be careful. 

“Gods, you feel so good,” he tells her, and she can already tell he’s too worked up for her to do this the whole time. 

“How about,” Hilda says, leaning down and momentarily hiding them both in the curtain of her unbound hair, “I ride you nice and slow until I come, and then you fuck me like the king you are?” 

Claude really likes to have his ego stroked, she knows it even if he might pretend for literally anyone else that he doesn’t -- and the noise he makes is caught between a groan and a laugh, his hips bucking up hard off the pillow. He grabs her by the hair and pulls her down to kiss her -- not too rough, not painful, just eager and possessive in the way that really gets her going. 

“That sounds like a good plan,” he says, and she has to laugh because he says it in Almyran and she loves when she makes him do that. 

Hilda re-settles back up on his lap, tosses the bulk of her hair over one shoulder and drops her hand between her legs. She knows exactly how to ride him  _ and  _ stroke herself off at the same time, and she’s making soft, breathy little noises, thighs clenching hard around his lean hips in no time. “So close, baby, you’re so good,” she moans, one hand on his chest, the other rubbing herself hard and fast until she tips over into orgasm. She cries out loud and rides the wave of it, leaning back and fucking herself on him through the delicious aftershocks, almost bouncing. 

“Not gonna be able to do the -- second part -- of this plan if you don’t -- fuck,  _ fuck _ , that’s good --- stop being so fucking gorgeous,” Claude pants, stilling her motions. His knees are bent, heels propped on the pillow to fuck her harder. He’s on edge, she knows all the signs, and as she comes down from her own peak she can’t help wiggling her hips a little just to make him suffer. 

He’s not wrong about that sadistic streak. 

Claude, because he’s the best, waits to make sure she’s good before he flips them -- and  _ that’s  _ also hot, the effortless way he moves, the strength in every line of his lean, muscular body. He’s got the build of an archer and the thighs of a wyvern rider, and he puts them all to use as he flips them over and settles himself on top of her. Hilda settles on her back -- usually she likes being fucked from behind, or with her legs on his shoulders, but he’s not going to last that long -- and tugs the scarf from Claude’s hair. It’s sweat-damp and soaked and adorable, and she rakes her fingers through it and smiles up at him. “Come on, Khalid, show us who’s king around here.” 

She teasing, but only a little; he gives her a fierce grin and kisses her, messy and hot. “Better hold on -- Dimitri, come here and let Hilda hold your hands.”

Hilda is barely aware of Dimitri appearing behind her head, naked and warm and eager to please even now, but she can kind of see that his cock’s half-hard again and good, it should be, this is a show not just anyone gets to see. Basically just Marianne, and wow, Hilda can’t  _ wait  _ to tell her about this later. 

For now, she reaches out and Dimitri’s big hands fold around hers, far more gently than she would have imagined given she’s seen the brutality of which they’re capable...but she pushes that out of her head and holds on tight to Dimitri’s hands, and Claude goes at it like he’s trying to fuck her through the pillow and the floor beneath and then right down to the ground floor. 

Hilda doesn’t need to come to like how it feels, but he’s in rare form and apparently has enough energy to just keep going and going and she feels herself on the edge again in no time. “Claude --  _ Khalid --  _ oh, baby, that’s so good, you’re so good --” 

Dimitri’s breathing hard above her, and when she glances up through the mess of her hair she can see him watching, his blond hair tousled over his scarred face, and she sees the exact moment he realizes she can see the mess of his scars and tries to shake his hair to cover it -- Hilda just gives his hands a squeeze to show she doesn’t mind, and he stops trying to hide from her and instead blushes and just watches her get fucked six ways to Sunday on the floor. 

When Claude’s being quiet it means he’s really into it, and Hilda wasn’t planning on getting off again but why the fuck not, so she wraps her legs around his waist and tilts her hips up to get just a little friction, and that’s it, it’s enough that she bows off the pillow and comes one last time with a sharp cry, squeezing Dimitri’s hands tight. 

Claude buries his face in her neck and moans, hips snapping forward as he comes at last, grinding his cock inside of her and shaking through his orgasm. He’s still wearing his pants and his boots, and he sort of half collapses on her, muttering something she absolutely can’t translate in Almyran but it’s probably about how awesome she is, which, fair. 

“I know, baby,” she says, giving Dimitri’s hands one last squeeze before gently disentangling them and patting the King of Almyra on the back. “I know. You  _ are  _ lucky, and you’re welcome.” 

Someone snorts a laugh; she thinks maybe it’s Felix. It’s hard to tell because her hair is literally plastered all over her face and she can’t  _ see _ . 

Before she can do anything about it, she feels hands gently moving her hair out of her face and smoothing it back -- Dimitri, who is still kneeling quietly behind her head. “Thanks,” she says, and he gives a nod and a smile. His eyes flicker to Claude, who still has his head pressed between her neck and shoulder. 

“Ew, I’m all sweaty,” Hilda whines, shoving at his shoulder. “Move, Claude.” 

Claude lifts his head, blinks, then smiles lazily and kisses her gently before pulling out and sprawling on his back. The cool air is a welcome relief on her slick skin, and she really  _ is  _ ready for a bath and a cold drink and her sweet girl to come back and cuddle. 

“Felix, come here,” says Claude, waving a hand. He’s so pleased with himself it would be obnoxious if he hadn’t earned it. 

Felix, clearly not immune to the show they just put on, crawls over and doesn’t  _ that  _ just make her husband beam with dominant pride in how well-behaved his submissive is? The chain swings as he makes his way over, and it looks good there, right, and she’s happy that Claude’s decided to keep them. 

“Strip me,” Claude orders, though some of his command is undercut by the fact he yawns halfway through it. “Then we’re all taking a nice cool bath, and having something cold to drink.” 

“Thank fuck,” Felix mutters, though he sets himself to stripping Claude without any further commentary. 

In true Claude form, he’s tapped into his never-ending font of energy and is on his feet, on hand playing with the chain on Felix’s collar and the other shoving his unruly hair out of his face. Hilda ponders asking for a hand up, but before she can, she hears someone clear their throat. 

“Your majesty,” says Dimitri Blaiddyd, feared warrior, savior king and ruler of all Fodlan, who is standing on his feet naked and wearing her husband’s collar. “Please, allow me.” He holds out a hand. 

“Great,” Hilda says, reaching out like she’s bestowing him a favor. “You can just go ahead and carry me.” 

“Of course,” Dimitri says, still so earnest, and reaches out his other hand. He’s strong enough that a simple tug gets her up and off the floor and carried bridal-style in his arms. She puts an arm around his neck, pats his very,  _ very  _ nice broad chest, and turns her head to grin at Claude. “I could get used to this.” 

“Me, too,” says Claude, grinning outright at Felix, who is on his feet now and standing at his side. “Me, too.” 

Felix crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not carrying you. No.” 

“That’s fine,” says Claude, then hooks a finger in Felix’s collar and pulls, sharply. “Back on your knees.” 

Hilda sees a flash of Felix’s smile before he hits the floor, and then she lets herself be carried to the bath by the King of Fodlan. 


	6. changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Heads up, there’s some death imagery in the beginning of this chapter, as well as a vague reference to self-harm.)

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is eight years old, and winter has fallen over Faerghus. Ice crowns the bushes lining the Fraldarius estate, snow lies in heaps scraped apart by mittened hands, and the pond behind the groundskeeper’s shack is foggy with a thick layer of ice.

“Aw, Felix, it’s not that bad.” Sylvain sits by the edge of the pond, holding up Felix’s arm. Sylvain’s hair hangs over his eye, pushed down by his hat to cover a yellowing bruise, and he bends Felix’s arm back and forth with a knowing air. “See? You’re fine. It was just a fall.”

Felix scrubs at his eyes, and Dimitri looks anxiously over the ice. His skates creak under him, and he hugs his fur-lined cloak closer, remembering how Felix skidded across the ice after his fall. 

Ahead of him, Glenn Fraldarius, heir to the duchy and one of the youngest squires in Faerghus, spins expertly on one foot.

“Come on, Dimitri,” Glenn says. His long hair is tied back out of his face, and he waves an arm imperiously. He never calls Dimitri _your royal highness_ like all the other nobles do, and it’s a relief, almost. Even Ingrid, who is dutifully doing laps around the pond, calls him _highness_ half the time.

“It’s like dancing,” Ingrid says, passing by in a whirl of green and white. “Isn’t it, Glenn?”

“Sure,” Glenn says.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Dimitri mutters, and Glenn laughs. 

“Just come over here,” he says. “I have something to show you, if you can get to the middle.”

Dimitri takes an unsteady breath. He pushes forward, and his skates creak ominously, but he manages to wobble a few feet across the ice. When he looks up, Felix and Sylvain are watching him carefully, and Ingrid has slowed to a stop, her braids swinging. Dimitri staggers the next few steps, and Glenn catches him. Just like he always does, every time Dimitri messes up a dance step or flubs his footwork in fencing. Glenn shoves at Dimitri’s hair and crouches down on his ankles.

“Look, Dimitri,” he says. “Look what I found.”

Dimitri scrambles to his hands and knees, and Glenn wipes his gloved hand over the ice. Something forms under his hands, something amorphous and strange, pressed up against the ice on the other side.

“Look at them,” Glenn says.

Dimitri brushes at the ice, and he thinks he sees _something_ in the odd, blobby shapes below, but he can’t quite tell. Something’s wrong with his eyes. It’s like he’s squinting, like one side of the world has gone all blurred at the edges, and Dimitri presses his face close to the surface of the pond.

And he sees them.

 _“Look at them, Dimitri,_ ” Glenn says.

Edelgard’s face stares up at him, pale with the cold, and bloodless, lifeless, her eyes clouded. Her hair floats about her in the water, white tendrils drifting like smoke, like ribbons of snow twining over rooftops in the breeze. Dimitri scrabbles at the ice, beats his fists against it, but all that does is disturb the frost around Edelgard’s face.

A hand bumps into the ice on the other side, and Dimitri’s father’s body presses against it, his eyes white and unseeing.

“Dad!” Dimitri rips off his useless gloves, starts unlacing his skates. “Glenn! Dad’s under there, father’s trapped, we need to—“

The ice shudders as another body rises to push against it. Glenn, older now, but still too young, his face so like Felix that Dimitri forgets the blade of his skates and starts digging at the ice with his hands. His nails crack, his fingers bleed, and one by one the bodies begin to fill the frozen pond. Knights. Squires. Pages he found burned in the wreckage of Duscur, enemy soldiers he killed himself, and in the center of it all, Edelgard, her blood red dress flowing around her. Dimitri slams his fist against the ice, and her lips move, slightly, her eyelids flutter. She’s alive. She’s alive, and he can save her, he can save her this time—

The world tilts, and Dimitri pounds on the ice to find that he’s striking upwards, and his blond hair floats over his eyes and in his mouth, sucked in with a freezing torrent of pond water. The dead stare down at him from above, Edelgard alone standing upright amid the ruined bodies at her feet, and she gives Dimitri a long, emotionless look.

Dimitri scrapes his bleeding hands on the ice.

“Look at them,” Edelgard says, and Dimitri jumps as a body brushes against him, and another, another, the dead rising from the depths to push him against the ice, and all he can do is thrash and scream and fill his lungs with water as Edelgard’s bloody gown sweeps over him, throwing him and the dead into darkness.

The ice cracks. Glenn is crouching over him, naked, wearing a collar gleaming with fine silver loops, and he’s drenched with pond water. His hair hangs over his face, which is… older, somehow, and not quite right, but Dimitri is still drowning, still scrambling against the ice. Water pools on the stone around them.

“Easy, Dimitri,” Glenn says. “You fell asleep in the bath. It’s not real, it isn’t—“

“Felix,” someone says. “Let me—“

“I’ve got this.”

“You got out,” Dimitri says. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. It isn’t coming. He must still be under. Trapped with the dead. ”Thought you were—you were dead—“

Glenn’s face twists. Crumples. And Dimitri knows where he’s seen _this_ face, dozens of times, every time Felix tripped or cut himself on his sword or had to watch Dimitri climb into the carriage to go back to Fhirdiad. Felix. Which means Glenn is… still there… 

“Felix,” someone says again. “Let me do this.”

Felix’s hands press on Dimitri’s chest. “This doesn’t happen much,” he says. “He forgets, sometimes, he goes back…” His hands are warm, and his face is wet, but Felix was always crying, always—Until Glenn died, and he forgot how to do it properly. Now the only tears that come easily at all come from pain.

A shadow passes over them. Edelgard. Dimitri tenses, reaches for a spear he doesn’t have, and Felix’s hands are pushed aside as a man slips into Edelgard’s shadow.

Claude. Khalid. The king of Almyra. Dimitri’s dominant, which means nothing when he could just as easily be another body under the ice, when Dimitri could have ripped him to pieces in Gronder. Dimitri tries to laugh, but it comes out hollow, and Felix’s face twists in anguish.

“It’s fine, Felix,” he says.

“You’re not, though.” Claude holds Dimitri’s face in his hands. “I’m gonna wait here until you come back to us, Dimitri.”

Felix gets to his feet. He’s trembling, with rage or fear Dimitri cannot tell, and he yanks something out of a clothes chest and throws it on. A robe of some sort, soft and diaphanous, with a sash holding it together. Hilda, standing at the connecting door with her hair down and a towel around her chest, starts forward, but Felix brushes past her. 

The door to their suites slams shut.

“We’ll deal with that later,” Claude says. “He needs to cool off. Dimitri, breathe for me. Slow and deep. Come on.” The natural dominance in his tone is almost overwhelming, and Dimitri sucks in air, holds it, lets it out. “Yeah. That’s good. It was the water, probably, wasn’t it? But you’re out now. You’re okay. I’ve got you, you know I’ve got you?”

Claude’s fingers touch Dimitri’s collar. “Yes,” Dimitri says. His voice comes out as a croak. “So do they.”

“Okay. Alright. But they’re not the ones talking to you right now, yeah?” Claude kneels over him, straddling his thighs, holding him down. The weight is comforting. It reminds him where he is; Here, in Almyra, looking up into cold green eyes and damp, tousled hair. “Think you can get to the bed?”

“Lead me there,” Dimitri says. He thinks of Glenn’s hands on his arms. Rodrigue holding his cheek. Blood in his armor, ground too deep to scrub away. Claude hooks his fingers in the collar and pulls Dimitri upright, and for a brief moment, as Dimitri staggers to the bed, his hand is an anchor.

“Now you know I’m still mad,” Dimitri says, and Claude frowns a little, rolls him over to straddle him again. Claude is naked, more solidly built than Felix but still lithe and beautiful, and he runs his hands up Dimitri’s chest with a firm touch that grounds him, reminds him where he is.

“I don’t know about that,” Claude says. “Our brains do weird shit to try and deal with what happened in the war. Even my dad gets waking dreams, sometimes. You know, where you smell something or see something and you think you’re back in the war for a second? His submissive—Mom’s, too, I guess, they share—used to be a battlefield doctor. She dealt with that. _And_ she can still swing a mace disturbingly fast. This was one of hers.” He grabs Dimitri’s hand and places it above a ragged scar in his side, old and dark against his skin. “Didn’t dodge fast enough.”

“Was she… _trying_ to kill you?”

“What? No. She likes me. Her son, though, that’s another story.” Claude moves Dimitri’s hand up to a starburst scar near his belly. His palm grazes over the puckered scar tissue there. “Challenged me for the crown when I was… fifteen? Fourteen, yeah. Thought my mom’s Fodlan blood diluted mine, negated my right to rule.”

“Didn’t know you had a brother,” Dimitri says. “Haven’t, don’t think we’ve met—“

“You did. He’s the secretary of defense,” Claude says. He shrugs a shoulder. “He likes it better that way, now. Kingship’s too much trouble and he knows it. Doesn’t like _me_ any better, but small favors.”

Dimitri tries to dig through a memory that isn’t still dragging through the ice, and vaguely recalls a young man with Claude’s cheekbones, a gold sleeve buttoned up over his shoulder. “Wait,” he says. “His arm?”

Claude grimaces. “He didn’t want to tell anyone he challenged me and lost, and Dad found him in a bar a few days later. Couldn’t save the arm.”

“Your father knows?”

Claude shrugs again. “Gotta fight my own battles. That’s my wyvern, Altaira,” he says, when Dimitri touches a line of faint scars on his chest. He holds up his hands, which are pockmarked with pale scars, and smiles. “Love bites. Most of these are. I work with the wyverns when I can get time off, and if the wyvern master will let me. He still thinks I’m six, I swear.”

“And this one?” Dimitri asks, softly, touching a mark on his thigh.

“Assassination attempt. I think the second one. My bad for not checking the rafters.”

Slowly, bit by bit, Claude draws Dimitri out of the cold waters of Faerghus, and Dimitri starts to piece together something of what shaped him. Late night rooftop runs with a friend from the market that ended with Claude dragged behind a horse until he was too tired to sneak out. Nicks from snapped bowstrings, wyvern bites that make Claude smile fondly, sword wounds from the war. A life mapped out under his fingers.

“So what’s this one about?” Claude asks, touching a mark on Dimitri’s abdomen.

“Battle, I think.” Dimitri frowns. “No, an imperial soldier. Just outside of Fhirdiad, when I escaped. I buried him in the snow.”

Claude holds his gaze for a minute, but there isn’t any judgment there. “And this one? Feels like an arrow wound.”

“Yes, that was Felix.” Claude’s brows raise. “Sylvain roped him into a bet, you see, that he couldn’t, ah, shoot an apple off…”

“No,” Claude says. “You aren’t telling me you actually put an _apple_ on your head and let _Felix_ shoot you? I saw that man with a bow, Dima, back at the monastery. He shoots better than Marianne’s horse sings.”

“We were nine, and Sylvain is very convincing,” Dimitri says. 

“Gods, he hit your _waist_ ,” Claude says. “I would’ve been banned from touching anything other than a bow for years if I shot like _that_ at nine.” He slides his hands up to Dimitri’s chest. “And the sword wound. I know this has to be a sword.”

“Really?” Dimitri huffs in his best Felix manner. “Yes. That was Glenn. He didn’t mean to swing quite so hard—Felix wouldn’t stop crying—“

“Felix? _Our_ Felix?”

“Oh, yes.”

Claude hums thoughtfully. He runs his hands up to Dimitri’s neck, over his collar, along the length of his jaw. He stops just under the mess of jagged scars over his eye. “Ready for this one, yet?”

“No,” Dimitri says, softly. “That one was me.”

Claude could press him. If he asks, in that low, commanding tone of his, Dimitri would answer. But instead he just leans down and kisses him, and there’s a promise in there, somewhere, one Dimitri can’t quite parse. Claude pulls back, but not far, so that he’s almost crouching over Dimitri. He holds a hand over the dagger wound in Dimitri’s shoulder.

“This one, then.”

“Edelgard,” Dimitri says, but it doesn’t come out hard and cold like he means it to. “I offered her clemency, then I speared her through the heart.”

But that isn’t it. Not entirely. And it comes out, piece by fragmented piece. The brown-haired girl Dimitri danced with as a child, who walked away with a dagger as a favor. The dagger she kept on her hip, even to the end, the one she returned to him in a fit of fury and rage and helplessness. The truth Byleth told him, after, a hand pressed to the chest of Edelgard’s death knight, who lay delirious with fever from what should have been his final fight.

“The Church tortured her for her crest,” Dimitri says, as Claude holds his hands over the mark Edelgard made. “The professor is routing the ones responsible now—There are only a handful who know. She was just a victim in this. Another casualty of the war that could have been avoided.”

“If we’d all just _talked_ to each other,” Claude says, and the vehemence in his voice startles Dimitri, for a moment. Claude closes his eyes and takes a breath. “Fuck. No wonder you have nightmares.” 

“It’s… been some time,” Dimitri says, carefully, “since I’ve had an episode. I understand if this changes your mind—“

“Don’t even think that,” Claude says. His voice is sharp, commanding, and Dimitri looks him in the eye. “I didn’t put that collar on you on the condition that you’re the one person the war didn’t fuck up, somehow. We all got fucked up, Dimitri. I think maybe you might want to talk to someone—My mother, I mean my mother and father’s submissive, she’d get it. Father has some antiquated notions about how to, you know, deal, and their kids had to become little self-important assholes somehow, but she knows her stuff.”

“I think I’ve done enough talking for a while,” Dimitri says. “But thank you. It does… help, a little.”

“Feeling more human?” Claude asks. Dimitri shrugs, this time, and Claude kisses him again, kneeling over him on the bed. They stay like that for a while, Claude a warm presence over his chest, until Claude sits up. “I need to get Felix. Where do you think he’d go?”

“Somewhere open,” Dimitri says. “Not the training yards for this. Used to go on the parapets, when it happened before.”

“Thank you.” Claude kisses him again, feather-light. “Marianne’s here. She apparently brought a cat. Or five.”

Dimitri cranes his neck to find Marianne standing at the doorway with a box in her arms, watching them warily. “I don’t need to be looked after,” he says.

“Uh huh. Just let her show you the kittens, Dimitri,” Claude says, and slides off the bed. Marianne gingerly walks over and sets the box down on the mattress. Inside, a handful of kittens stumble about, stubby little tails lifted high, while a white cat sleeps in the corner.

“Thisbe had them in the wyvern stables a few weeks ago,” Marianne says, climbing onto the bed. She picks up a tiny grey kitten, which shrieks in her hands, and holds it out to Dimitri. He holds up a hand, and the kitten staggers into his palm. The door closes behind Claude, but Dimitri’s breath evens out as he tries to hold his hand steady, too nervous to look away.

“There,” Marianne says, cupping Dimitri’s hand in both of hers. She smiles up at him, and the chill of the ice in Faerghus feels too distant to grasp, chased away by the heat of Claude’s mouth on his, Marianne’s fingers on his calloused knuckles. “I knew you had a gentle touch.”

***

Claude will find him eventually.

It’s inevitable. Felix passes more than one servant on his way to the outer stairs, which glow orange with the light of the setting sun, and he knows Dimitri will probably give Claude a clue as to his whereabouts. He steps barefoot over patterns of stars and wyverns and people shifting somewhere between human and dragon, tangled up in clouds. Mosaics give way under his feet. Amber dragonflies lead a path along the windows, and Felix finally finds himself alone at the highest point of the palace, on an open platform overlooking the city. Something whistles as he steps onto the soft rugs laid out on the lookout, but when he lays his hands on the stone rail and peers over the edge, he sees nothing.

There isn’t a bracing wind to drag Felix from the thought of Dimitri thrashing against him, looking up into his eyes and seeing… someone else staring back. He can’t just walk until it passes, not when Claude and Hilda saw, not when they’ll have inconvenient questions and concerned looks and… 

“Fuck,” he says. He tugs at the silver chain of his collar. Of course it has to happen now. 

When he hears footsteps on the stairs behind him, he doesn’t bother to look.

“Nice out here,” Claude says. “Isn’t it.”

Felix props himself on his elbows, leaning over the railing. “Sure.”

Claude appears at his side. He’s dressed again, a little hastily—Just a tunic, pants, and some kind of open robe Felix has seen the servants wear, except it’s embroidered with gold clouds and herons. He leans on the railing next to Felix, and Felix looks away, towards the city. There are so many more gardens here than Felix expected, bursts of green bristling over roofs and from window boxes. Everything in Almyra seems alive.

“Not gonna punish you for leaving,” Claude says, at last. “If you’re worried.”

“You don’t seem the type,” Felix says.

Claude smiles slightly at that. They stand there a minute, listening to that odd whistling on the wind, and Claude’s robe brushes against Felix’s leg, fine silk sliding on bare skin.

“I hated him, you know,” Felix says. It comes out hard, short, like it’s being forced out of him. “For a while. Not at first. At first it was… he was always the one I…” He twists his fingers together. “When he quelled that rebellion, before you came to Garreg Mach, when I saw what he could do… he was a _beast._ A killer. He didn’t believe in chivalry and knighthood any more than I did, but he didn’t have a right to pretend to care about people when he could just turn around and massacre them.”

“I saw him at Gronder,” Claude says.

 _“You didn’t_ ,” Felix snaps. “You didn’t see him like I saw him. You didn’t hear him, hear him _talking_ to them, like they were _there,_ talking to my brother.” He whips to face Claude. “ _My_ brother! Like he had any right to him! Like he had a _claim_ on him, just because Glenn was slaughtered in Duscur. And he would drag Glenn’s memory through the dirt to say he’d come to him? Asking for vengeance? When Glenn would probably do what I did, what I _had_ to do, and try and show him what a fool he was? I hated him for what he did to Glenn, to his father, to the _living.”_

Claude just watches Felix, hands clasped over the railing. The sunset blurs behind him.

“Then he was dead.” Felix pushes himself back from the rail. “He was dead, and I’d abandoned him, and when he came back I—I swore I’d never let it happen again. But it does, Claude, they still _have_ him, I can hold onto him all I like and they’ll still _have_ him.”

“They’re dreams, Felix,” Claude says. His voice is level, quiet. “It isn’t the same, anymore. You don’t have to hold him together.”

Felix turns on him again, and Claude snaps his fingers.

“You think I’ll _kneel—“_ he starts, and Claude looks at him. It isn’t an admonition, or a warning. It’s just the pure, even confidence of a king who expects to be obeyed. Felix drops to his knees with a snarl. Claude runs his fingers through the furious tears on Felix’s cheeks, almost lovingly, and tilts Felix’s head back.

“They’re dreams, Felix,” Claude says, again. “You aren’t at war. You don’t have to try and heal people on your own. And you aren’t the only one who loves him.”

Felix glares up at Claude, but Claude just tugs at the chain of his collar.

“You loved him first, I know,” Claude says. “And you paid dearly for it. But you love him.”

“Yes,” Felix says. 

“He’ll be okay,” Claude says. “ _You’ll_ be okay. You’re the one here, kneeling for me. Being a voice for Dimitri on his council. Brokering a peace between Almyra and Fodlan, which hasn’t been done in hundreds of years.”

“And you’re what,” Felix says. “Window dressing?”

Claude laughs. “Felix. Are you trying to _compliment_ me?”

“Don’t get too used to it.”

Claude smiles down at him, a fond, quiet sort of smile, and blinks as something whistles behind him. A creature rises over the railing; A white, snake-like dragon with small limbs and no wings to speak of, twisting like a ribbon through the air. It whistles as it circles Claude, and another ribbon dragon joins it, silver-grey this time, and another, red tinged with gold. They whistle together, discordant notes ringing in the still air, and Claude holds Felix down by the shoulder as he lifts his free hand to them.

“Wyrms,” he says. The red-gold one snaps at his fingers, then twists in a wide loop around his arm. The others examine his hair, his robes, whistling and clicking. “They’re supposed to be good luck, here. The first queen of Almyra…” his voice goes soft as one of the wyrms clicks at him, sliding around his waist. “They say she was a war orphan. Her father died in a skirmish, and she was lost in the desert, so she stripped pieces off her scarf, and the gods turned them into the first wyrms. They led her here, where an underground aquifer became the fountain of queens in the main square. They say wyrms are drawn to the royal family even now.” He runs his fingers along the scales of one of the wyrms, which whistles like a crystal chime. “It’s a nice story, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Felix says. A wind courses over the lookout, stirring Claude’s robes, and the wyrms wheel about them both, whistling high. “I think you’ll be okay, too, King Khalid.”

\----

Claude watches as the last of the wyrms depart, spinning in the air and making their soft little sounds as they tumble off into the newly-fallen dark. He stands next to Felix and stares out at Almyra. His kingdom. He loves it, the history and the myths and the traditions, the heat and the people and the language that he’s just now started to dream in, again. 

He loves it, and yet he’s not unaware of its faults; there are parts of his own history here he’s not proud of, there are memories he doesn’t like to think about, times when he felt so lonely and unwanted that the only place he felt safe was in the wyvern eyrie. And honestly, even that wasn’t very safe -- juvenile wyverns didn’t know their own strength. And they liked to try and eat Claude’s hair sometimes. 

He’d never much liked Fodlan. It wasn’t just the weather, either; Almyra has a notion of bloodline-based nobility, but they don’t have crests and the more Claude hears about what it’s led to, the more he sort of hates that _he_ has one, too. Everything about Fodlan seemed connected and tied not just to violence -- Almyra is brutal in a lot of ways, Claude knows that better than anyone -- but to _war._ Like there’s nothing else. Like there will never _be_ anything else. Even their games as children mimicked battle. 

There’s a stirring of unease as Claude thinks about this. He’s always known he wanted peace between his country and Fodlan. Always had that shining hope for the future held firmly in his mind, his heart. All they seemed to teach their sons and daughters in Fodlan was how to bleed and die -- not for what was supposed to come after. 

_And somehow they always called_ us _the barbarians._

At least this cycle will break, now. Claude wonders if things would have gone a different way, had Dimitri been not only a brutal and efficient warrior but a dominant as well. If instead of nearly drowning trying to serve his ghosts, he would have simply added to their numbers by demanding his army join them. A mad king with an army of ghosts at his back. It makes Claude think about that myth, the mechanical soldiers who had no heart, no soul but for war when their king called them to it. 

He’s very glad that isn’t what happened. 

Claude looks down at Felix -- proud, strong Felix, as sharp and cutting as his blade but so much more. Claude strokes his fingers through Felix’s unbound hair, enjoying how he looks in the muted light of the early-dark. His mouth quirks. “I’ll be okay, will I?” 

“I think you’re like a cat. Always landing on your feet.” Felix stares out at the horizon. “It’s a good thing you wanted peace and not a war. We don’t know how to deal with people like you.” 

“People like me?” Claude asks, an edge to his voice like an opened wound, old insecurities bleeding out. Must be all that talk about the past. 

Felix, who is surprisingly sensitive to Claude’s moods, turns his head to look up at him. As pretty as he was in school -- and he’d been _very_ pretty -- Claude likes the way he looks now; not so much tempered by war as gentled by love. Peace is always better in the end. “Sneaky people,” he says, like that should be obvious. “We just point our swords at things and run at them. You...plot things.” 

“Do I,” Claude says, amused. “Do you think this was my goal all along, having the king and his consort as my submissives?” Saying it still gives him a rush, the black silk of Felix’s hair winding around his fingers. He gives it a tug. “I should say it was, huh. Let you marvel at my intellect and tactical prowess.” 

“I’m not the type to marvel,” says Felix, as dry as the Almyran desert. “I just meant. You’re like a force of nature, not an army. Everyone knows you can’t predict the weather.” 

Delighted, Claude tugs him up with his grip in Felix’s hair. “Come up here.” 

“You just told me to kneel,” says Felix, lovely and obstinate as ever. 

“I did, and now I want to kiss you, so get up here and let me or I’ll send you to bed without any dessert and that is an expression, Felix, before you argue and tell me you don’t like sweets.”  
He knows what Felix wants, though; physical sensation to ground himself, so he doesn’t feel like he’s skittering away in the breeze. Claude winds that thick dark hair around his hand and _pulls._ “Up you go.” 

Felix rises to his feet with a faint rustle and jingle; it finally occurs to Claude to notice that he put on the dancer’s outfit. He draws Felix close, smiling a bit. “Should I be flattered you chose to wear this without being told?” 

“No,” says Felix. “It was the first thing I saw and I -- thought I should be dressed if I was going wandering.” 

“You don’t need to be,” Claude says, thumb rubbing over the silk fabric at Felix’s hip. “You’re my submissive, you can be naked for me all the time if you want. Anywhere you want. It is _my_ palace, you know.” 

Felix still has that serious, moody look on his face but he ducks his head; Claude watches the way he plays with the chain on his collar, intensely satisfied every time he rubs at the charm. “They don’t...think that’s cheating?” 

“They?” 

“Your -- palace people. Servants? I don’t know who else lives here.” 

“No. I’m the king, I proved myself and earned the right to parade pretty boys around in nothing if I want...and you don’t speak Almyran, but if you did, your ears would be burning if you knew what the _palace people_ said about you. You’re striking. You dueled my mother and held your own. If I wasn’t the king, someone would probably challenge me for you. They might anyway.” 

“No one is challenging you for _me,_ ” Felix huffs. “I don’t want to be anyone else’s. Even if Fodlan, we’re allowed that choice.” 

Claude tips Felix’s face up and kisses him, softly. “We’re not in Fodlan, sweet thing. Here, you don’t have anything unless you’re strong enough to hold onto it. Do you think even if someone _did_ challenge me, I’d lose? I wouldn’t.” 

Felix sucks in a breath, and there’s enough moonlight to see what this does to him, that dancer’s outfit is _very_ revealing. “I’m not a _thing,_ Khalid.” 

Claude smiles. “You’re my sweet thing, I told you.” He laughs outright at the look he gets. “I like my sweets a little spicy. That’s not a secret. And you like that I’d do that, fight to keep you -- or do you just like that I’m certain I’d win?” 

“Both,” Felix says, after a moment. “But I don’t want you to have to. I’m wearing your collar. Anyone who tries to take it off and put their own on me, they’ll have to go through _me_ first. They won’t ever get as far as to draw down on you.” 

Claude pulls Felix flush against him, mouths at his neck. “I handle _you,_ Felix. You do not handle me. You’ve got one king to take care of and you do a good job, but I’m _your_ dominant, you are not mine.” He bites down to make his point, one hand gripping Felix’s muscular upper arm, the other tight around his hip. He wants to make a point, here. “I take care of _you._ And we’ll stay out here until you understand what that means, sweet thing.” 

He kisses Felix with one hand in his hair, then turns him and shoves him toward the railing. “What it means,” he continues, shrugging out of his robe and tossing it gently aside, “Is that I’m going to bend you over this rail and -- well, _rail_ you -- while I gaze down at my kingdom.” 

“It’s dark out,” says Felix, because of course he does. 

Claude has to turn his head to hide his grin. “I’d say I was going to do this with my hand over your mouth, but I’m not going to deny myself hearing the sounds I’m going to drag out of you.” He flips the indecently short skirt of Felix’s dancer’s outfit up and over his back, running his hands over his ass. “Can you take me? Or should I find some oil?”

“I can take you,” Felix bites out, as Claude grinds his erection against him. He pushes his hips back, demanding, his dark hair caught by the breeze as he grabs at the edge of the railing. 

“Look at you, how eager you are for me. To take me. You want it to hurt a little, don’t you?” Claude gets his laces undone, frees his cock and strokes himself, simply enjoying the way Felix looks bent over with the fabric of his hastily-donned costumery flipped up to expose his ass. “You like to feel it.” 

“I -- yes,” Felix says, shoulders tensing as Claude nudges his legs apart to press against him. “Fuck, _fuck--”_

Claude gives a husky laugh that turns into a moan as he eases in. Felix is tight and hot, and it takes all of Claude’s considerable concentration not to just grab his hips and fuck him until he’s sobbing. He’s going to, but first -- there are a few things Claude wants to make clear. 

One thing in particular. 

Once he’s seated to the hilt, he bends over and traps Felix there beneath him on the stone railing. “There’s something I’m learning about you, Duke Fraldarius, Shield of the King. You’ve been trying to keep everything -- mostly Dimitri, I think -- from falling apart since you were young. You might hate the concept of knighthood and chivalry but you are the most loyal knight I’ve ever known, Felix. A credit to your house. But when I have you here, beneath me? I _want_ you to fall apart. Let go. For me. Trust that I’ll catch you, that I’ll make it okay.” 

Felix makes a sound, struggling a bit, and Claude just grinds himself into Felix’s tight heat and says, “You can struggle, you can cry out, you can fight and you can _lose._ To me. Only to me. All right?” 

“Just get _on_ with it,” Felix growls, panting, but there’s something in the way his voice sounds -- shaky and unguarded, that tells Claude he’s going to do exactly what Claude wants and give it up for him, really give it up, show Claude that vulnerable, aching center that Felix has spent so long trying to hide, or hone into something sharp. 

“Hold on to the railing and don’t let go,” Claude tells him, and then he starts fucking Felix, hard, slamming his hips forward without easing Felix into it at all. He knows that’s how Felix will want it, will need it, to get him where Claude wants him. “But someday, sweet thing, I’m going to lay you down in my bed, strip you, and take my _time_ with you. Make you beg for my cock.” His own voice is getting a little husky, eyes nearly crossing with pleasure at how good Felix feels around him. 

He reaches down and gets a hand on Felix’s cock. “Let me hear you, sweet thing. I said I wanted you to fall apart. Do it or I’ll stop, and you know I mean it.” 

Felix is obstinately quiet for a few long moments, the only sound he’s making is a sharp exhale through his nose. But he clearly likes Claude’s rough, fast pace; he’s moving into Claude’s thrusts, and his cock is slick from pre-come, hard in Claude’s hand. But Claude is relentless, and all it takes is a few more hard thrusts for the first lovely, soft sounds to start spilling from Felix’s mouth. 

They’re mostly the same height, but Claude pulled his boots on and Felix is barefoot, so it gives Claude just enough leverage when he takes his hand from Felix’s cock, relishing the pained moan Felix makes when he does and grabbing Felix’s hips in his hands. “That’s it, come on, let me hear you. Let _all_ of them hear you. That you’re mine, you belong to me, you’re _mine_ and I’m going to make sure you know it -- do you feel how much I like this, fucking you, taking you?” 

“I -- yes,” Felix manages, fingers so tight on the railing his knuckles have gone white where they’re curled around the stones. The moon’s risen and the light throws a cold chill on Felix’s equally cool beauty; he’s like some fae creature, captured and taken for the king’s pleasure here on the highest point in Claude’s palace, overlooking his kingdom. 

“Then let me hear you like it, sweet thing.” He draws back and snaps his hips forward, aiming for Felix’s prostate, wanting to fuck him so good he comes untouched. He’s gripping Felix’s hips hard enough to bruise, the bells on his dancer’s clothes jingling as Claude fucks him. “I can do this for a long time, beautiful. You’re going to do what I want or we’ll stay right here until you do.” 

With that, he shifts forward and -- even though it’s kind of killing Claude to do it -- stills, arched over Felix, his cock throbbing inside of him as he grinds his hips in a slow, maddening circle. 

“What,” Felix pants, flipping his hair in a move that is unpracticed and ridiculous and totally gorgeous, glaring at Claude. His face is red, his eyes overbright, and Claude’s so close to making him cry with this, so _close._ “Why -- don’t _stop --”_

“Then stop holding back and let me hear you,” Claude manages, and he might be overselling that _I can do this for a long time_ thing because he’s close, too. “All that matters right now is what I want, yeah? You’re not _my_ shield. You’re my submissive. Submit.” He pulls out and slams his hips forward, and they _both_ moan, but at least Felix’s is starting to get louder. “You don’t need to show anyone anything. You just need to get bent over and fucked by the king. That’s all.” 

It takes a few more hard thrusts before Felix throws his head back and half-moans, half-shouts, actually kicking his bare feet against the stone floor while Claude drives him forward. He can see tears on Felix’s face, and he knows Felix is close. Claude himself is, too, he’s shivering from holding back and it doesn’t get any easier when he finally gets those gorgeous sounds out of Felix.

“That’s it, yeah, good, Felix, you’re so good -- so good for me, aren’t you?” Claude lets go of Felix’s hip with one hand and catches the fall of his inky black hair, using it like a rein to yank him back, like he’s forcing Felix to show his throat to all of Almyra, admit in a way that transcends language that he isn’t a duke, he isn’t the Shield of the king, here he’s just Claude’s, _Khalid’s_ , the king who is taking him apart in the warm summer night in the light of a full moon. “You want to come for me, sweet thing? Want to come on my cock?” 

“I -- please, yes, yes,” Felix babbles, and he really is a mess, Claude’s stripped him down to aching need and a desperate yearning to please and _that’s_ what he wants, right now, and getting it from Felix feels almost as amazing as fucking him. “Khalid, please --” 

“I told you that you’re not the only one who loves Dimitri...and he’s not the only one who loves you, either,” Claude says. “Now let me feel you come on my --” 

He barely gets that out, Felix is already crying out, louder than Claude thinks he’s ever heard Felix. But he shudders and comes all over the stone railing and the floor, without even a hand on him, and as it drives Claude over the edge he has a fanciful notion that he just made Felix come by telling him he loves him. True or not, he’s going to believe it. 

Felix is a mess when they’re finished; his hair is wild (his hair is like Felix without any inhibitions, it’s amazing), his eyes tear-bright and glassy, his face reddened and wet, his mouth open. He’s dragging in deep breaths, blinking like maybe he doesn’t know where he is, and his fingers are shaking when he touches the collar Claude gave him, closing around the charm like a touchstone. 

Then he sinks to his knees without Claude saying a word. 

Claude fixes his trousers, and he’s still a little winded from that as he draws Felix’s head toward him and presses it against his thigh. Trying to untangle his hair is next to impossible, but he knows Felix hates being too hot and while he really _can’t_ do anything about the weather, he can at least gather Felix’s hair up and hold it off his neck. He lets him get his bearings, talking to him in Almyran until Felix’s breathing evens out. 

When he seems to be quieted, Claude pats him on the head and says, “Can you stand?” 

Felix is never going to be the sort of person to say _no_ to that, no matter _how_ under Claude just put him. And he’s sure this is as under as Felix has ever been, because when he does get to his feet he stumbles a bit and actually reaches out to grab Claude’s arm to steady himself. He doesn’t say anything, just sort of stares at Claude with his amber eyes blurry like seaglass. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” Claude says, his whole body buzzing from satisfaction. He reaches and draws Felix in again, hand around his neck so he can kiss him. “I meant what I said, you know. I do love you.” 

Felix makes a soft sound and closes his eyes, like it’s all too much -- it probably is. Claude doesn’t necessarily expect to hear it back, that’s not why he said it, but Felix grabs at his shirt and says, “How do you -- say it. In Almyran.” 

Claude tells him how to say it, and in the quiet dark, Felix says it back. And then, while Claude gets his own emotions under control, Felix says, “What did you do. To my _hair,”_ and Claude laughs, loud enough that maybe the whole kingdom heard _that,_ too -- or at least everyone in the palace. 

“I’ll braid it for you,” Claude promises, reaching out and tugging the dancer’s outfit off Felix - it’s messy and damp with sweat, so he takes his robe off the chair and swathes Felix in it, tying the sash loosely. “Come on.” 

“Dima’s looks better,” Felix says, following him. “Holds better, too.” 

“Fine, fine, I’ll let Marianne braid your hair.” When they’ve traversed all the stairs and are back to the hallway with the royal suites, he turns and pulls the sash off the robe. “Hand that to me.” 

Felix does it without comment, leaving him collared and naked in the hallway. He looks at Claude. “You were serious.” 

Claude just smiles, turns around, and starts to walk. Behind him, Felix gets on his knees and crawls. 

***

They sign the peace treaty at sunrise. 

King Khalid the Silver-Tongued is the first to step onto the platform at the highest point of the palace, well before the witnesses and the Fodlan king are to arrive. It’s tradition, Dimitri is told, that the king spend an hour in darkness, alone, before any law or treaty is signed. 

“Just enough time for your legs to fall asleep,” Claude says, as he fits a heavy golden crown over his slicked-back curls. His royal raiment is impeccable, soft golds and browns that bring out the light in his eyes, and the weight of his crown keeps his chin lifted. Dimitri wonders, not for the first time, how he could have ever mistaken him for anything but a king. 

“Quit mooning and get ready,” Felix says, when the door clicks shut after Claude. He’s sitting on the floor with one of Marianne’s kittens, a little black cat that rolls over his knees and bats at his fingers. Felix has already changed, but his ducal regalia still hangs on a post in the other room. He’s in a soft, tailored pair of trousers Dimitri hasn’t seen before, with embroidered stars on the hem, and his shirt, which bears Dimitri’s crest along the back, is unbuttoned enough to show the glint of a silver crescent moon below his collar. Marianne has braided silver stars into his dark hair, and he looks entirely at peace here, on the floor of the Almyran king’s royal suites.

Dimitri touches his own collar, soft and warm against his throat, and smiles. 

They arrive just before the hour is up, hovering at the top of the stairs. Felix is already red to his ears, even though it surely can’t be _that_ hot yet, and he keeps glancing at the edge of the platform as though he’ll go toppling off the railing at any moment. Dimitri touches the small of his back, and Felix takes a steadying breath.

Claude signs first. It’s only right—He’s the one who worked the hardest for this, who fought for this—and when Dimitri neatly pens his own name below with just the slightest hint of a flourish, he pauses for a moment to glance at Claude. It feels almost too easy, like there should be something else, something to mark the moment this all begins. Instead, there’s just a soft, warm breeze rising over the city, and the sound of officials shifting in their formal clothes, Felix’s boots scraping the stone to his right. Then the sun rises, and the treaty is rolled up and placed respectfully in a leather tube, and Dimitri stands at King Khalid’s side to the silence of the world starting to change. 

***

Almyra invades in the spring.

King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd wakes in the breezy, sun-swept manor at the border of the Alliance to the sound of booted feet pounding in the hall. He half rises, long hair spilling in his face and over his shoulders, as the door to his bedroom slams open with enough force to topple one of Felix’s swords from the rack.

“Oh, shit!”

The figure in the door is midway through what seems like her fourth growth spurt of the year, with gangly limbs and bony elbows and acne trailing up her chin in furious red spots. She shakes out her shaggy blue hair and stares at Dimitri with all the well-bred panic a thirteen-year-old princess can muster.

“Dad,” she says.

“No,” Felix whispers, from where he’s mashed his face into the pillow. Dimitri rakes his hair out of the way and sits up.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“Dad, I can’t find my sword. I need to borrow Papa’s.” _This_ wakes Felix, who scrambles up out of the sheets with a scowl that his daughter, who is currently trying to wrest a sword off the wall, chooses to ignore.

“Aurora,” he says.

“Laila’s been going on and on about this new bow Daddy gave her,” Aurora says, yanking the sword free with both hands. “And how she got to dance with Idris by _herself_ on her birthday, so if I can borrow the Fenton just long enough to make her hate me for like, five seconds—“

“Aurora _Selene_ Blaiddyd, put that sword back where it came from,” Felix says. Aurora turns to face him, her expression as dark as Felix at his most contrary, and jerkily places the sword back on the rack. “You aren’t fighting your sister.”

Aurora turns to Dimitri, who shrugs. “We signed a treaty about it and everything, dearheart. Now sit down and I’ll do something about your hair.”

“That joke got old years ago,” she says, but she plops down on the bed anyways. Dimitri knows better than to ask her to dig out a gown—she stopped wearing those since she first visited Almyra—but he does pin up her hair with the silver jewelry Marianne sent her that winter. Felix doesn’t bother to do more than tie back his hair before he stumbles to the bathroom, but Dimitri takes his time getting ready, buttoning up a light blue shirt just enough to show the stars on the collar at his neck. Aurora watches him from the bed, swinging her boots off the edge. 

“How long do you think they’re gonna stay?” she asks.

“The kids are here til autumn,” Dimitri says.

“Goddess help us,” Felix drawls from the bathroom, and Aurora rolls her eyes.

“The others… maybe a month,” Dimitri says. “What do you think, darling? Should I keep the beard?” He brushes at the stubble over his jaw, and Aurora pulls a face. “Your opinion has been noted.”

“You don’t have time, anyways,” Aurora says. “Uncle Ashe said he saw them from the stables thirty minutes ago.”

Felix’s razor clatters in the bathroom sink.

Aurora slips off the bed as chaos descends, backing gingerly towards Felix’s sword on the wall. Felix stops her with a look, and she’s ushered out of the room while Dimitri tries to scrub his face with Felix ducking around him, trying on shirts and brushing at the slight hint of grey at his temples. When they both push themselves out of the room, Aurora is sitting on a bench in the hall, holding one of Dimitri’s bows.

“No,” they say at once, and Aurora groans.

After over a decade of dealing with unsteady wyvern-landings in the front lawn, the gardeners have learned to leave the wide stretch of grass by the front doors to the dandelions. The stalks bend in an early spring breeze, and Aurora races through them, kicking up seeds. She waves to the approaching shapes creating the apple orchard, and beams as first one wyvern barrels past her, then another, scraping up the earth with their heavy claws. Two more land genteelly a little ways away, but Aurora is already racing for an older girl with short pink hair and Claude’s rakish smile. They crash together in a tangle of limbs, and the two other children on the second wyvern sigh and slip off the saddle. The youngest, a dark-haired boy named Val, is tied to the oldest girl’s wyvern. He fumbles with his ties and looks tearfully up at Felix.

“Alright,” Felix says. He strides over and unties the boy from the saddle, and Val promptly bursts into tears on his shoulder. “Oh.”

“He missed you,” Laila says, from where she and Aurora are trying to wrestle each other to death in the grass. “I mean, so did we. Hi, Daddy,” she adds, waving to Dimitri.

Amir and Miri, who _could_ be twins for all they stick together like glue, look from Felix to Dimitri before they decide that climbing Dimitri like a walking jungle gym is the better option. He swings Amir over one shoulder, a giggling ten-year-old sack of potatoes, and wraps an arm around Miri to hold her round the middle.

“This is how you greet a king,” he says, in mock despair. 

“It’s how we greet Dad,” Amir says, and laughs as Dimitri stomps across the grass, carrying them both past their wyvern. Felix is whispering to Val in fumbling Almyran, and Val clings to his neck and sobs like his heart is breaking, so Dimitri reaches his _other_ visitors first.

“I’ve discovered these bandits in my front yard,” he says, dropping a giggling Miri and Amir onto the grass. “I expect they might be yours.”

“Not for the next four months, they’re not,” says Queen Hilda, grinning wide. She’s lovely in her new riding clothes and black ribbons in her hair, and she has a hand in Marianne’s as she helps her down. Marianne staggers in the grass, and she wraps her arms around Dimitri’s neck and lets him lift her in an embrace. 

“How’s Aurora?” she asks. 

“Being a barbarian, as usual,” Dimitri says, and Marianne sighs. He kisses Hilda’s hand, and Amir makes a gagging sound from the grass. He glances up and over Hilda’s shoulder, where a white wyvern lashes her tail in the dandelions, and tries to tamp down the excitement bubbling up his chest. “Ah. Did you…”

“Just go on,” Hilda says. Her eyes gleam with a private smile. “We all know you want to.”

Dimitri kisses her hand one more time, just because he knows she still loves being able to look down at the king of Fodlan, and straightens. The wind stirs his long hair, and he tries not to let his eagerness show as he strides across the lawn. The man stepping down off the wyvern turns—Dimitri gets a glimpse of a trim beard, amber drops hanging from his ears—and Dimitri falls to his knees at Claude’s feet.

Claude smiles fondly and bends down to kiss him, slow and warm and just as perfect as always. “Hello again, Dima,” he says. 

“Hello, Khalid,” Dimitri says, and tilts his face to the sun. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And all’s well that ends well! Thank you to everyone who read along and commented; We do so appreciate your support and enthusiasm! Please do check out the other works in this series, like the delightful Won’t Go Down Easy by dustofwarfare that started it all.
> 
> Please also check out [this beautiful comic from the wyrm scene](https://twitter.com/dustofwarfare/status/1266816051141984256?s=20) made by @riotbones on Twitter!


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